Johnlock: Love and Friendship
by Sherlockfan12
Summary: Sherlock and John are a little too close for 'just friends' but what are they really to each-other? Where exactly does the boundary between friendship and romance lie? An impromptu overnighter and a little nudge from Lestrade helps the boys sort themselves out. - slash, low drama
1. Chapter 1: An Unexpected Party

**Author's Note:** This will be a series of about 10 chapters I think (it's turning out much longer than I originally anticipated). As usual, this is exploring yet another way Sherlock and John might begin a romantic relationship and I've tried to keep them relatively in character while providing awkward and cuddly scenes for your enjoyment. I don't necessarily want to rush them in this one, but at the same time it is kind of fast and I don't plan to draw it out much...unless I possibly just happen to get ideas to continue the story after they are a couple. I'd really like to do more like that, I just always seem to get ideas for new beginnings instead.

Yes I am borrowing a title from The Hobbit for the first chapter, not only because of the fandom link due to John playing Bilbo, but because the scenario of this story is an unexpected slumber party so to speak.

_-Obligatory Disclaimer -_

_These characters belong to the BBC show writers Moffat and Gatiss. This is just fanfiction, no profits made, blah blah blah. And my apologies for any fangirlish butcherings which have no doubt occurred herein._

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**Love and Friendship Ch.1 - An Unexpected Party**

"You're joking!" Lestrade glared at the ground, kicking at pebbles as he paced along the edge of the ditch with his mobile. "Alright. What about just_ one_room with three beds? Have you got anything like that?" he listened with a grimace. "Nnno. Right, well… one room with two beds and a.. couch or lilo or something, anything to accommodate three?" He peered down into the trees below as he waited for the receptionist on the other end, "Yes? You've got a room with a double and a single bed?" he shuffled his feet awkwardly, "And how much would that be?" He shot a furtive glance at John and Sherlock who were just climbing up out of the ditch where a little creek ran alongside the country road. Sherlock suddenly lost his footing on the loose, crumbly soil, but John caught his hand before he'd quite landed on his knees and hoisted him up the last step. Sherlock, who hated to appear incompetent in any way, swatted indignantly at the dirt on the lower half of his trousers.

"Fine, we'll take it." Lestrade muttered curtly and hung up. "I'm certain they're charging twice as much just because it's summer and everyone's on holiday." He complained, "The hotel was fully booked, so I had to try some little B&B. Sorry chaps, we'll all have to share a room. "

John looked startled and glanced a bit awkwardly between Sherlock and Greg.

"Fine." Sherlock muttered absently as he crossed to the other side of the road and peered at god-knows-what in the hedge.

John wondered if Sherlock had even actually processed the announcement. He shifted his feet uncomfortably; somehow sharing a room with both of them didn't bode well. It wasn't that John was particularly private; he wouldn't have minded sharing with Greg by himself, and he was quite comfortable sharing nearly anything with Sherlock by now, but that was just the point. He was too comfortable with Sherlock to be able to relax in the way he normally did when they were alone, if other people were watching. He had to admit, they _were_ perhaps abnormally close for 'just friends', but the idea of Sherlock being romantically involved with anyone seemed absurd. Yet everyone seemed all too eager to misinterpret their closeness, and he was pretty sure Lestrade was not immune to that disease. He knew he was being paranoid about people's assumptions about the nature of their friendship, but he still couldn't stop himself feeling embarrassed. Sometimes he felt his own self-consciousness doubled to make up for Sherlock's apparent carelessness about what people thought. He really didn't know why exactly it bothered him so much, and admonished himself that Sherlock's nonchalance was, in fact, the more reasonable response. But there was nothing for it now, the room had been booked, and from what it sounded like, they were lucky they wouldn't be sleeping in the car; he would just have to deal with the awkwardness. Perhaps Sherlock would sniff about on his own all night and leave John and Greg to sleep in peace. He wondered if Greg knew just what he was getting into trying to sleep in the same room as Sherlock; either bored or on a case, Sherlock could be quite the demanding insomniac.

John was rather surprised that Lestrade had decided to tag along with them all the way from London. Earlier today, he had been nearly ready to close this case when Sherlock had suddenly had a revelation and asserted that their conclusions up till that point were completely wrong and had then dashed off, hot on some new scent that only he could trace. Lestrade had admitted that he'd had misgivings about the conclusion himself, and had begrudgingly decided that as there was no stopping Sherlock, he'd better accompany him to prevent him taking matters into his own hands. Sherlock had traced this new trail of clues all the way up to Yorkshire, and Lestrad had thought it best to leave the rest of his skeptical crew behind. So it had been just the three of them all day, driving and tramping through the countryside, making inquiries here and there in the towns along the way.

It had actually been rather pleasant, in a way. John liked Greg and found himself wishing they might have had more time to spend as friends outside of crime scenes. John especially liked that he was one of the few people who tolerated, and even appreciated, Sherlock, and was thus one of the few people he might be able to hang out with as friends along _with_ Sherlock, who was his best friend after all, even if Sherlock would never admit anyone else into his exclusive circle of 'one friend'. It made John happy to see the possibility of Sherlock's circle widening with himself acting as interpreter and peace-keeper. Although, he didn't relish holding that position tonight with Greg's patience wearing thin after a long day ending in an unforeseen sleep-over on account of having to wait till morning to meet with a possible witness, and the prospect of Sherlock preventing any of them from getting a good night's rest in the mean time.

Having satisfied himself with the hedge, Sherlock strode back to the car and got in without a word, though the sound of his door shutting had the distinct ring of a command for them to get going at once. Lestrad heaved a sigh and shared a glance with John as they both climbed dutifully back into the car. John glanced back at Sherlock lounging across the back seat by himself, _thinking_. No doubt Sherlock would reveal his findings in due course, and in the mean time they would have to entertain themselves with the view of the countryside and the moderately pretty sunset which was commencing behind the green hills. All chatting and radio had been strictly forbidden shortly after they'd left London. Thinking had been similarly forbidden after their discussion over lunch, which they'd been forced to eat on the go due to Sherlock's impatience, and the rest of the day had fallen into a surprisingly comfortable silence. Actually, John found it rather nice not to feel as though he was expected to keep a conversation going, and it seemed that Greg felt the same. They'd chatted to each-other a few times while Sherlock ran on ahead of them, but their enforced silence in the car had only felt awkward for about the first 10 minutes, and since then all three of them had developed their ability to simply read each-other's expressions.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Dusk was settling into the shadows and the last rays of sun were reflected in deep red off the west-facing windows as they drove into town. At the first sight of a pub, Greg and John exchanged glances and Greg quickly pulled over to the curb. When they'd been invited in for tea by the last lady they'd spoken with, Sherlock had automatically refused before either of them could speak up, and they'd had nothing to eat since lunch besides the bag of crisps they'd shared about two hours ago. It was now going on 9. They climbed out eagerly, followed by Sherlock who gathered what this stop was about in a glance as he lazily shut his door and began looking about the street for something of greater interest.

"I'll just…"

"No." John cut him off, firmly taking hold of his arm and marching him toward the pub. "You haven't eaten a scrap since breakfast, you've gotto eat something for dinner." Lestrade took up his post on the other side of Sherlock to prevent him escaping, and together they herded him through the door into the crowded pub. The local regulars were supplemented by the seasonal tourists, so the place was packed. Sherlock gave in with a roll of his eyes, and stood between them looking bored while they scouted out the room for a place to sit. Eventually they spotted a tiny table for two tucked into a nook and made their way toward it. John ushered Sherlock into the booth first and then squished in next to him as best he could while Greg took the chair opposite. John spread the menu out on the table before him, and he and Greg examined it intently. Sherlock's eye fell on it indifferently as he leaned back in the corner, apparently making his stand against food in silence. John determined not to let him boycott dinner and plotted to order him an appetizer of soup at the very least, if he refused to order anything for himself.

John was still debating between the steak pie and the curry, feeling at the moment as though he could have eaten them both, when the waitress arrived. She was quite pretty and his inner debate ground to a halt as he glanced up at her. After a nearly imperceptible pause while John and Greg both registered her attractiveness, Lestrade ordered the fish & chips and then John opened his mouth, but Sherlock's rich tones were heard instead.

"I'll have the curry, and he'll have the steak pie. Oh, and some tea for me, thank you."

John caught the sly glance from Sherlock and felt himself turn a bit red, though their corner was too dimly lit for anyone to notice. He quickly ordered himself a beer before the waitress had bustled off. Sherlock had a way of knowing what John wanted, and more often than not took it upon himself to order John's second choice, if there was any debate, since he was usually indifferent about his own sustenance, and would then proceed to pick at whatever it was before eventually pushing his plate at John, or else reminding John a day later that he ought to finish up the left-overs before they turned into another experiment as he had no intentions upon them himself. Normally John appreciated this little arrangement, but not when it highlighted their closeness under the watchful eye of would be match-makers. Sherlock's faint smirk, which of course only John had caught, indicated he was aware of John's paranoia and had done it in particular tonight to tease John in retaliation for making him endure this boring meal. Usually he at least allowed John the dignity of placing his own order. John kicked him under the table, and shot him a reproving glare. Sherlock glanced innocently at the ceiling.

While John and Greg concentrated on dinner, Sherlock rambled off his findings to them, finally explaining several of the seemingly invisible clues they'd gotten their shoes muddy over, trekking through pastures and creek-beds that afternoon. He did, however, manage to sneak in a few bites of curry during his monologue, which John was careful to observe. John wasn't about to let him get away with just pushing his food round on his plate a bit before having it boxed up for John. If they'd had a dog, John mused, it would no doubt have become very fat sitting by Sherlock's feet.

When Lestrade paused to comment on one of Sherlock's observations, thinking out loud more for his own benefit than because Sherlock didn't remember the connection with some previously known fact (for of course he did), Sherlock took the opportunity to take a few larger bites. Then, John cringed as he saw Sherlock's hand move to the side of his plate while he licked his fork clean, screaming inside for Sherlock to not push his plate toward him tonight, but of course he did because of course he knew John was mentally screaming for him not to. The action did not escape Lestrade's notice. _Great_, John thought to himself, _now he knows we share each-other's meals, just like a couple. He's not dim, he's probably working out that Sherlock got it because I wanted it and is thinking how sweet it is_. John considered refusing it, or at least ignoring it, but the smell of the spices wafting up on the curls of steam proved irresistible and he found himself shifting his own nearly empty plate aside and starting in eagerly on Sherlock's.

Sherlock leaned back in the corner again, languidly sipping his tea, gazing arrogantly down his nose at the two mortals still bothering themselves with mere physical nourishment, or so his air seemed to imply. _Well he could just wait_, John thought, determined to thoroughly satisfy his deprived stomach before budging from the table. John was beginning to slow down now, though, letting his food settle and savoring the flavors a bit more now that he'd taken the edge off his apatite. Without thinking about it, he imitated Sherlock's laid back posture, even as Greg began to do the same now that they weren't leaning in, straining to hear Sherlock over the general din of the pub.

It was only when the waitress returned to take their plates and give them the bill that John noticed out of the corner of his eye as he turned to look at her that Sherlock's hand was hanging off the back of the booth on that side of him, which meant, unless it was no longer attached to his arm, he'd been leaning back with Sherlock's arm practically around him all this time. He stuttered in the midst of thanking her and Sherlock leaned across him, crowding far too close, to take the bill she was holding out. John tried his best to keep poker-faced while he wondered whether Sherlock had put his arm there specifically to make John more flustered, or if he had simply felt comfortable in that position and never even thought of the social implications. Whatever Sherlock's motivation, he was certain neither Greg nor the waitress would guess right. As John glanced back up with an awkward smile he could see she thought they were a couple. He wanted to explain he was only sitting this close to Sherlock because there weren't any bigger tables and he needed to make sure Sherlock actually stayed and ate something, but he knew that would just seem awkward, so he bit his tongue and tried to convince himself it didn't matter what she thought.

Greg leaned across the table to see the check, asking "How much do I owe?"

"I'm sorry I didn't think to ask if you wanted two checks." The waitress apologized, sealing John's doom in his mind.

"It's fine, I'll cover it." Sherlock said quickly, pulling out his card with the hand that wasn't still resting on the back of the booth behind John.

"Well how much…" Greg began again.

"I've got it." Sherlock cut him off.

"Really?" Greg looked grateful, though not quite ready to believe Sherlock was being so generous, considering he'd barely eaten any of what he was paying for.

The waitress took his card saying "I'll be right back with this," and turned away with a glance that slid over Sherlock and John, which, at least to John's paranoid mind, seemed to be telling him he was in possession of a rather desirable boyfriend. John couldn't wait to get out of there, eager to feel the cool night air on his face. He chided himself for being so easily flustered by Sherlock's indifference to his personal space, noting that had they not been under the watchful eye of Lestrade, he might not even have noticed, and that, really, he was being quite silly about it.

He couldn't stop himself blushing again, however, when the waitress returned a minute later and Sherlock began scooting out of the booth even as she handed back his card, thus crowding against John as he tried to squeeze out through the narrow isle without bumping the table next to theirs. Sherlock placed his hand on John's back to push him along as John paused to finish off the last sip of his beer, which he quickly decided wasn't worth it and hurried to get out of Sherlock's way so he could walk independently on their way out.


	2. Chapter 2: That's What Friends are For

**Love and Friendship Ch.2 - That's What Friends Are For**

Once they were back at the car, Sherlock consulted his phone for a minute and determined where they were staying before Greg had even mentioned the name of the place. With his habitual self-assurance, he guided them through the now dark, winding streets to the little B&B. Naturally, it was one of those charming old houses restored and modified with modern conveniences, but looking for all the world like it was still part of another century.

Inside, Greg inquired after their room at the little desk as John and Sherlock peered about at the cozy lobby with it's fire place and wing-back chairs. John longed to go sit in one right now, but knew he'd never drag himself back up again if he got comfortable.

They followed the plump receptionist up the creaking staircase to the second floor and down a hallway that smelled of smoke and that sweet air-freshener which was meant to cover it up. They all crowded to a halt behind her at the end of the hall where she handed over the key and informed them breakfast would be served in the dining-room from 7:30 to 10. John smiled and thanked her and she left them to their slightly awkward silence.

Lestrade swung the door open, flipping on the light, and they surveyed their room. There was a single bed on the side by the door, and over by the little bay-window was a double bed. John's stomach sunk to the lowest corner of his gut. He glanced wistfully at Greg who was moving toward the single and then nervously at the other bed. There was no way this was going to end in anything but misery. He could just feel that Greg expected him and Sherlock to share. John wouldn't have been particularly bothered if they'd had a room to themselves with only one bed, even though it meant enduring Sherlock's restlessness and blanket-stealing, but Greg was bound to be a much less annoying bed-fellow and it killed him to think how much more sense it would make for them to share while Sherlock waged war with the blankets on his own, and yet the unspoken expectations that hung thick in the air wouldn't allow him to easily suggest that arrangement. He felt he must be turning green as he considered the conclusions which might suggest themselves to someone listening to Sherlock tossing about in a bed with someone else, though he didn't relish being overheard fighting with him either, which seemed inevitable unless he planned to just give up and cling to the side of the bed all night without any covers. The room was smallish and didn't even have a love-seat or armchair he might have curled up on for the night. For a moment he contemplated just resting his head on the little writing desk, but he knew he'd be horribly stiff the next day if he did.

"Well, I guess I'll just… take the floor…" John reached for some of the pillows that were practically spilling off the double bed and looked about for a spot that would be relatively out of the way.

"Nonsense, you'll sleep with me." Sherlock said definitively, laying a hand on John's shoulder and directing him back toward the bed where he'd just tossed his coat, apparently without even considering making a bid for the single, which had been John's last shred of hope.

"But…" John turned to him as he began to protest, which had the effect of bringing them chest to chest as Sherlock continued crowding him back toward the bed out of the walkway he had been about to obstruct.

"There's no reason for you to endure a stiff back tomorrow when there's a perfectly good bed." Sherlock cut straight across his excuses with simple logic.

"Oh it's alright, I already know." Lestrad quickly assured them. "I think it's sweet. I mean, you two make a great couple. You just seem to belong together, you know." He rambled a bit awkwardly, "I dunno why you try to hide it."

"What?…we're not…I'm not…" John stammered helplessly.

"John, you _do_ realize that the more adamantly you deny it, the more people don't believe you. Perhaps you should just shut up now." Sherlock muttered sternly to him.

John choked on the rest of his remonstrations and glared up at Sherlock who removed the pillows from John's hand and tossed them back on the bed. This was turning out far worse than he'd anticipated. Now the rumors would really spread. He felt they endured quite enough awkward glances and suggestive comments as it was, not to mention the difficulty it caused him with dating, something which he'd practically given up on by now as no woman seemed to last more than a week or two without jumping to the same conclusion. How could Sherlock be so bland about it?! He must realize the implications of this scenario. With his lack of interest in romance, it would have been only decent for him to be equally quick to deny that kind of involvement with each-other and make an effort to prevent situations which would lend themselves to such assumptions, but he was just so damned impervious to other people's opinions, they didn't seem to factor into his reality at all. If _he_ knew they weren't shagging it made no difference if the rest of the world thought they were, and he didn't seem to care what affect it might have on John if other people thought so. John realized he couldn't even complain about Sherlock's sleeping habits and say the floor would be more comfortable in order to get out of this, because the very fact that he knew what it was like would prove that they sometimes 'slept together'. In truth, he had, on one or two similar occasions, been forced to sleep beside Sherlock, but no one would believe it was just that when they lived together and spent all their time together. He sunk down onto the bed with a sigh of resign. Hopefully their appointment with the possible witness first thing tomorrow would allow them to wrap this up and they wouldn't have to hang around another day.

It was nearing 11 now, and what with the long day and the early start ahead of them they might as well just turn in straight away. John didn't move though. They hadn't been expecting to spend the night when they'd started out and therefore had nothing with them but the clothes they were wearing, which meant either sleeping uncomfortably in their things and looking very rumpled the next day, or sleeping in just their pants. John was in no hurry to do either and sat on the edge of the bed very slowly taking off his shoes and undoing his belt. It was a small consolation that Lestrade looked slightly awkward as well, but he was too tired to bother hesitating for long.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was having a snoop round the room without any signs of exhaustion. Perhaps he _would_ just stay up all night and John could have the bed to himself. Even if it meant sleeping with the lights on and Sherlock pacing back and forth it would be better than the alternative, though he wasn't sure Greg would stand for it. John stood and ruefully took off his trousers and began folding them neatly while Sherlock peered out the window. Then he heard the window scraping as Sherlock opened it, and although it wasn't likely anyone could see in he whirled around, startled by the draft of cool air on his legs. Sherlock was leaning out the window examining something, then ducked back in.

"Had a thought…" he said, swinging his leg over the sill, "…won't be long, but don't wait up."

"What are you….? Sherlock!" John cried as Sherlock began to climb out the window onto nothing, as far as John could tell. Despite himself, John rushed to the window and grabbed Sherlock's arm. "If you're about to run off and do something idiotic, I'm coming with you." He said firmly.

"It's nothing dangerous." Sherlock insisted irritably, "You'll only slow me down. Shouldn't take more than an hour."

"Sherlock, you have to sleep sometime!" He couldn't believe he was insisting on the very thing he'd only just been hoping against, but Sherlock's health did matter more than his own pride, and although it was possible Sherlock had napped a bit in the car today he hadn't really slept the night before. However exasperated John got with him, he still cared about Sherlock's well-being.

"I just need to see something, and it would be best if I see it before morning."

Sherlock began climbing down the side of the building, apparently hanging onto the thick ivy that covered the old wall. John leaned out after him whisper-yelling. "Sherlock! Do you have something against using the door?"

Sherlock shot back upwards for a moment, his head nearly colliding with John's.

"Quiet!" He muttered in John's ear. John didn't want to think what this looked like to Lestrade, who may or may not have been able to hear and see the content of their exchange over the windowsill. "Someone was watching us come in here, and I _think_ I'd rather him not see me leave."

"But…" John stalled, not wanting to let Sherlock go off by himself no matter how 'safe' he claimed his mission to be, but not finding any way to argue with him. Sherlock sunk a little lower in his awkward position hanging onto the sill and John had his arms around him instantly, thinking he was about to fall. He glanced down over Sherlock's shoulder at this dubious ladder while the thought of Sherlock tumbling to the ground below played out horribly in his mind. For the moment he'd forgotten Lestrade and was just trying to hold Sherlock up as he worried the vines were loosening under him every second, but Sherlock was not about to let himself be pulled back inside. Finally John said lamely, "It's cold out. You're not even taking your coat?" Summer or not, the evening was cool and damp with a brisk breeze coming from the north.

"I'm fine. This will be easier without…." Sherlock began to dismiss John's babying, but then interrupted himself, "actually can I borrow your jumper?"

"What? …Okay?" John said hesitantly, a bit shocked by the request but not feeling he could refuse if he genuinely wanted Sherlock to stay warm. Sherlock hoisted himself upwards and grabbed John's shoulders to help steady himself as he came halfway back through the window. John began to pull off his jumper with his shirt hiking up awkwardly as he did so, and in his natural impatience Sherlock reached over to help pull it over his head.

The shirt came with it.

John's ears went hot as he stood there almost naked with his hair all mussed looking straight into Sherlock's eyes with their arms trapped together in the tangle of shirt and jumper. Thankfully, Sherlock did not glance down and make him feel any more exposed. John extricated his arms and shirt from the jumper and handed it over. He had to grab onto Sherlock again when he teetered precariously while struggling into the thing, which was of course a bit too small for him. Then Sherlock was quickly ducking back out the window before John had quite let go of him, and John ducked partway out again with him. He almost said something like 'be safe' but felt tongue-tied. Sherlock looked kind of funny in his jumper, and John didn't exactly like how endearing it was. He also still didn't want to let him run off into the night without any real assurance that Sherlock would be back in the hour he predicted. John's fingers weren't listening to his brain's direction to let go, and he just hung out the window looking at Sherlock. Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't simply rip himself from John's grasp, but paused a moment as well, returning John's stare with his own oddly intense gaze. At last he raised his eyebrows as he glanced down at John's hands curled tightly in the jumper as if to remind him mockingly of his paranoia of what people might think if they saw them. John immediately let go and Sherlock lurched forward to balance himself with the loss of John's counterweight as he'd been leaning out from the wall. Their faces nearly brushed and John froze even though he wanted to jump back. Sherlock's hair tickled John's face as he looked down and found a new handhold in the ivy, then he glanced up quickly and for a heart-stopping second, John had the crazy impression he was about to kiss his cheek goodbye or mutter some ridiculous farewell like 'I love you.' It must have been because their position looked disturbingly like something out of Romeo and Juliet.

Almost equally unexpected from him came, "Thank you." But it was in Sherlock's same old dismissive, business-like tone so John relaxed. Sherlock's brow creased fleetingly at John's expression, then he muttered, "Keep your phone close; I'll text you if it becomes… interesting."

"Right." John sighed resignedly as he watched Sherlock's descent, as if his gaze could somehow act as a safety line. Sherlock dropped silently to the ground and disappeared into the shadows.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When John turned around, Greg was staring openly at him. He steeled himself. _Oh god, he'd forgotten someone was watching them_. He'd vaguely thought he'd heard Greg go into the toilet and had hoped he'd have missed all that. Apparently he hadn't. John opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't think of anything he could possibly say that wouldn't dig himself in deeper than he already was.

Greg looked rather awkward himself, but while John stared at him like a cornered rabbit he took it upon himself to fill the strained silence. "I meant it, John, you two are great together. I'll admit I was surprised at first, but… you're the best thing that's ever happened to him. It's almost like you're, well…, meant for each-other somehow. I know he's stupid about being seen as sentimental, but you know he really does have feelings. Even I can see it when he looks at you, and he can't keep himself as discrete as he'd like to be when you're together." Lestrade spoke with a determined air that indicated this was something he'd wanted to get off his chest a long time, even if it wasn't really his place to say it. "Why do you let him get off easy by pretending you're not together in public? I guess in a way it's nice you take all the unwanted attention on yourself and let him just stand by looking cool and arrogant like he likes to, but I don't think it's right. I mean, if I cared that much for someone, as it's obvious you two do, then I'd want everyone to know, …you know? It's got to hurt denying it like that, even for him I'd think it must. You shouldn't let him avoid being a real couple. You should be able to enjoy being together. "

John's mouth hung open and he struggled to find something to say, but Greg cut across any protests he might be trying to form.

"_I know_ you kind of _have_ to pretend to be his straight flat-mate to avoid people sticking their noses in your affairs, pestering you both with their advice, and expecting you to do couples things, all of which he'd hate, and I suppose people _would_ give him a hard time about it all, given the way he's always sneered at romance. I suppose they'd give _you_ a hard time too," he let out a wry laugh, "can't say I'd want him for an in-law myself, but… I dunno, you shouldn't feel like you have to lie about yourself. I know people might think he's incapable of a real relationship, and I guess that _would _make you feel pretty awkward if they assume you're just in it for….well, that he's just using you, but like he's always saying, what does it really matter what other people think?" Lestrad shrugged, "I guess _I_ just think that, whatever excuses he might make for not letting anyone see that you're his weakness, you'd both be a lot happier if you'd make him put his feelings in the open for once. "

John was floored. Never in a million years would he have expected Greg's little pep-talk. He spoke like he took their couple-dom as a given. Did he really think John went overboard denying they were together because _Sherlock_ was too awkward about it and didn't want people to know? He'd never dreamed people might read it that way, though he supposed it would make sense, knowing Sherlock. Did Lestrade really see love in Sherlock's eyes where John had always assumed there was just intense scrutiny? Of course John knew they cared deeply for each-other, but after their discussion early on he'd just assumed anything that appeared to be more than friendship was simply Sherlock being awkward. Sherlock was asexual, wasn't he? John had sort of assumed that. His invasion of John's personal space was just his social ineptitude, right? His spitefulness towards John's dates was just because he was lazy and selfish and wanted John there to fetch and text for him every hour of the day, wasn't it? But…people didn't normally jump to this conclusion with everyone who had their best friend for a flat-mate, and John certainly didn't think they _looked_ like they particularly matched with each-other, so what else could possibly be making people so convinced that they were together? Did they really appear to be as in love with each-other as everyone seemed to believe? Could it actually be _himself_ who was operating on faulty assumptions and not everyone else?

"And don't let anyone tell you you could do better just because he hasn't got a way with words." Greg added firmly. "For all that he doesn't care about people… well I suppose all his undivided love belongs to you. That's really something, you know." He looked as though he wished someone might care for _him _that much.

John's knees failed him and he sat down heavily on the bed. Lestrade's envious expression had hit him rather like a punch in the gut. Did he think John wasn't grateful for what he had, or rather what Greg _thought_ he had? Was there any remote possibility that he actually _did_ have Sherlock's complete devotion and he'd just been a colossal idiot not to recognize it all this time? Sherlock wasn't one for voicing sentiment, but _could_ he have been sending subtle cues that John had misinterpreted? He felt a sickening chill pass through him. He didn't want to think about that, because in his heart of hearts he couldn't bear the thought of _anyone_ breaking Sherlock's heart. Though little seemed to affect Sherlock, John suspected that if something _did_, it would leave a very deep wound indeed.

John opened his mouth once more, as he drew his legs up onto the bed and glanced abashedly at Greg who glanced away. "Um…I…" John tried, but stopped. Instead, he busied himself folding up his shirt for a moment, then heaved a sigh and set it with his trousers before turning once more to face Lestrade. His back was to him, however, and he was ruffling the back of his hair and pulling back the coverlet to his bed.

"Errm, …thank you for speaking your mind." John found himself saying. There was really no hope in trying to persuade him he was wrong at the moment, and John actually appreciated what he'd said, even if it was totally off. Anyway, he didn't want Greg to be kicking himself now for having spoken up.

Lestrade climbed into bed and turned back to face him as he pulled the covers over himself. "Maybe I shouldn't have said anything, but I guess I care about him, …and you." He mumbled glancing down. "Just think about it. If anyone can make him accept his feelings it's you." He reached for the light switch, glancing at John for confirmation that he should turn it off.

John nodded as he pushed back the covers and climbed under them, turning to face the open window to keep 'watch' just in case Sherlock would need his help climbing back in, as he would no doubt come back the way he came, if indeed he came back before sunrise. John supposed he'd probably sneak back silently for a few minutes, then creep downstairs and they'd wake to find no sign of him, but then discover him sitting down in the lobby when they came down for breakfast. That would be his style anyway. They'd be discussing setting out to look for him when he'd make some off-hand comment from the depths of a wing-back chair where he'd sat all night staring into the embers, thinking. Then he'd disappear again while they got breakfast, and he'd pester John with texts until they'd finished eating and caught up with him. Yes, that would be how it would go, John thought, as his head settled into the fluffy pillows. The bed felt delicious to his weary bones and he looked forward to sleep.

But it was slow in coming. John gazed at the window waiting for Sherlock's arms to appear over the sill any minute, while Greg's words swirled about in his brain. The vivid memory of Sherlock's hair brushing his face and his eyes as they'd stared at each-other over the window-sill hung, quite unbidden, in his mind.

_Love?_ _The love of friendship, certainly, but…more than that? Could he really trust what he thought he knew? _

He lay there feeling empty and troubled, anxious for Sherlock's return. As nice as it was to have the bed to himself right now, he couldn't relax any more than if Sherlock had been there hogging it. He didn't like it when Sherlock went off alone. Perhaps it was due to their first case together when he'd nearly got himself killed over a stupid challenge and John had luckily been there in time to save him. First impressions, you know. He knew he could trust Sherlock with his life, but he couldn't trust Sherlock with his own life; he was too reckless. John felt responsible for him, even though he always told himself he shouldn't, and he reluctantly admitted that he felt rather pouty whenever Sherlock didn't include him in his investigations because he was, in essence, refusing John's protection. When he thought about it like that, he supposed he wanted Sherlock to _need_ him. Whenever John was left behind to worry about him like this he couldn't help but notice how desperate the thought of loosing him made him feel. In all honesty, he'd never been this entangled with someone before. There was an unspoken commitment between them that he'd never felt with his family or other friends. It almost didn't matter that they weren't in each-other's pants. In some aspects, John knew their relationship was more like a marriage than a friendship. He just wished people could accept whatever-the-hell-they-were to each-other without assuming it revolved around sex. That wasn't what either of them was looking for from each-other. But something in the back of his mind countered with …_even if they weren't looking for it, did that rule out the possibility of them ever sharing it? _

John pondered yet again why he always reacted so strongly to the suggestion that they were a couple. He supposed part of why he was always quick to deny they were together was because he'd originally been appalled at the suggestion that he was perhaps taking up the offer of a flat-share with Sherlock because he was attracted and hoping for something extra from him. He'd been eager to assert his indifference so as not to make Sherlock uncomfortable. Sherlock's own response to that awkward conversation in Angelo's had neatly filed that idea away under 'impossibilities' and John had never thought seriously about it, in spite of fending off the all too frequent assumptions. But after Greg's little talk, he found himself forced to seriously examine what he'd assumed to be true for them both.

Perhaps Sherlock had been equally eager to assure his new flat-mate that he wasn't looking for a convenient shagmate as part of the deal. But did that necessarily mean that his interest in John couldn't change over time? He'd certainly allowed John to become closer to him than anyone else. Even if Sherlock was asexual, what did their level of closeness amount to for him? How close might Sherlock _want_ to be to him? John had hitherto rested in the certainty that Sherlock didn't want any emotional attachment, nor any physical intimacy, with anyone, and that his friendship with John was sort of a lucky accident on his part, a failure in maintaining his walls. But now he was faced with the question of whether that accident might have turned into an intentional pursuit. Sometimes John had the strange sense that Sherlock was clinging to him, in spite of liking to think himself independent. When John was angry with him and tried to shut him out, Sherlock very uncharacteristically panicked, though he tried to hide it of course. What if he had become dependent on John's companionship? Might he want John to commit his life to him? Might Sherlock, for the first time, consider deepening their connection rather than pushing away as was his habit with everyone else? John realized he had no idea what Sherlock's feelings for him really were, because he hadn't been looking for them. He had no idea what his own feelings were on that front either, for the same reason, but if Sherlock did care for him in that way…? As Lestrade had put it, Sherlock's affection wasn't something to be taken lightly. As unnerving as the thought was to him, John felt extremely honored. Could he honestly refuse Sherlock? Could he honestly accept a gay relationship?

Although he'd avoided thinking about the subject as much as he could, now that he wasn't avoiding it he had to admit to himself that a big part of why he was so adamant about not being gay was that it had long been a bit of a sensitive subject for him. After his father had died, Harry, being the elder sibling and tomboy she was, had tried to play dad to him for a while, which he had never appreciated as he felt he should have been 'the man of the house'. Growing up with two women and no 'father figure,' people had sometimes assumed he was gay, as if somehow the trauma of loosing his dad would cause that, and he'd resented the assumption because of it's association with people pitying him. He wasn't searching for some other man to look up to. He wanted to prove he was capable and independent and strong and had never identified with the stereotypical idea of 'gay,' especially when in his youth the term was usually used to imply someone was 'girly'. Also, because Harry had always gotten attention for being different and a bit rebellious, John had settled into the role of normal, ordinary, dependable, and traditional in contrast to her, perhaps partly because he felt a sense of duty to give his mother some stability and someone to be proud of while Harry was always on-again-off-again with being supportive and then resenting the responsibility she felt others expected of her. When Harry had officially 'come out' in her teens and their mum had realized she couldn't be counted on for supplying any grandchildren, which was compounded by the fact that he was his father's only son, that expectation had unspokenly fallen heavily upon John, and he'd always sort of assumed he'd eventually 'settle down' and carry on the family line. With his mum gone too now, he realized he still hadn't stopped to reconsider that expectation and whether it was something he really wanted for himself. He could hardly expect to maintain his involvement with Sherlock once he had a family, but it was difficult to imagine a future without him; it would seem so bleak in comparison.

As a result of all this, he had always simply assumed he was straight and had never seriously considered having that kind of relationship with another man. Sure he noticed when someone was good-looking whether they were male or female, but he'd never allowed himself to actively think about another man's attractiveness. He liked women, he liked dating them, and as that was the norm, it just hadn't occurred to him to think he might want anything else. Throughout medical school and the army, the suggestion hadn't really come up again until he'd met Sherlock. His reaction against the assumption had been automatic, and he realized perhaps more violent than it ought to have been at this point, because it touched on the past implication of his insecurity. However, he had to ask himself now whether it was so much of an impossibility. Although he'd never thought of himself being in a gay relationship, did that mean he actually _couldn't_ imagine it? There was no arguing the fact that Sherlock was attractive, even though John hadn't allowed himself to dwell on it. More than that, Sherlock's personality had completely captivated John from the start, despite how annoying he often was. And John certainly did care for him, more than anyone else actually, if he stopped to think about it. What if there never would be anyone he'd care for more? What if he stopped looking for someone else and just accepted it? Even if Sherlock didn't want sex, might he possibly be more happy living with _him_ than anyone else? And if Sherlock did love him, had John been unknowingly stabbing him in the heart every time he'd insisted they couldn't possibly be 'together'? He felt awful.

But then John panicked. What was he doing? What if he talked himself into falling in love with Sherlock and then it turned out he'd been right all along and Sherlock had no interest whatsoever in that sort of relationship. He was getting ahead of himself, and probably not thinking very clearly in his sleep-fogged mind. He concluded that his mind must be playing tricks on him and that he'd better stop trying to muddle through all these troubling thoughts and just continue with 'business as usual' tomorrow.

His last thoughts as he fell asleep were of Sherlock's pale face in the night, breath puffing out in white steam, all alone out there in the dark; brilliant and aloof, and so very dear to him. John wondered if anyone else truly appreciated Sherlock's value. Silently John called him back to get some much needed rest for once, and to ease his own worry about his safety. He almost texted him, but then simply tucked his hand holding his phone under the pillow, hoping it would wake him if Sherlock did bother to send him an update


	3. Chapter 3: Blankets

**Love and Friendship Ch.3 - Blankets**

John woke, frozen and stiff. Sherlock was back. He had cocooned himself in all the blankets and was stretched diagonally across the bed. John silently cursed his luck and tried to find an edge of the down comforter to pull back over himself. When he tugged on the corner, he found himself pulling against all of Sherlock's weight and elicited a kind of moan-growl from Sherlock who yanked it back. John huffed in frustration and lay on his back a moment trying to plan his next tactic. He reached up and grabbed one of the superfluous pillows and tried to cover his legs with it. It seemed he'd woken Sherlock out of his rock-like slumber just enough to make him cranky, and he now twisted rather violently about trying to get himself comfortable again.

"Ow!" John let out a strangled cry as one of Sherlock's toenails jabbed him as he slithered even more diagonally across the bed, effectively pushing John's legs over the side. John shoved him back and made another attempt to repossess the blankets. Sherlock swatted his hands away and made unintelligible protests.

"Sherlock!" John muttered angrily, fervently wanting to hit him, but not wanting to start an all-out war and wake Lestrade too. He gritted his teeth in determination and heaved Sherlock over to his side of the bed so he was laying straight, whispering haltingly through his exertion,"This. Bed. Is not. Big enough. For. The both of us."

Sherlock lay silent, stubbornly clutching the blankets around himself.

John shivered and glared at Sherlock's back, then gave up and lay down right behind him with his back up against the blankets even if he couldn't get any on top of himself. Sherlock squirmed petulantly, trying to shift diagonally once more, kicking John's legs since John was blocking him from doing so.

John cursed under his breath and crawled back over to the edge of the bed, out of range. He lay there miserably with his teeth chattering. It was obvious he wasn't going to win and the rest of the night stretched out before him in certain misery. He almost whimpered as his frustration and groggy exhaustion nearly brought him to tears. He just wanted to sleep!

Suddenly he was enveloped in warmth. It took a moment to realize Sherlock hadn't just wrapped the blankets around him, but his entire self. His leg hooked around John's dragging them diagonally across the bed with his own.

"You're right." Sherlock mumbled begrudgingly.

"Sherlock?! What the hell? Get off!" John whispered in shock.

"It's this or the floor, John." Sherlock muttered in his ear, clamping himself more tightly around John so his elbows were pinned to his sides thus preventing John from trying to hit him.

"Sherlock, what do you think you're doing? …This is not…. People will think…." John's attempts to push Sherlock away were fruitless.

"What people, John? Lestrade is asleep."

"Yeah, well he'll wake up eventually!" John pointed out in a tone that said 'nice try.'

"Sooner, if you don't shut up." Sherlock shot back with mounting irritation. "You've got your blankets now, isn't that what you wanted? Stop squirming."

"That's not the point! You can't seriously plan to sleep on top of me!" John insisted desperately.

"Then what _is_ the point? You didn't seem to mind me sleeping on you last week when you thought I'd dozed off watching telly and you took it on yourself to act as my pillow."

"That was different!" John hissed, though he paused in his struggling. "Your neck would've been cricked if I'd left you like that and you needed rest. If I'd woken you to go into the bedroom you wouldn't have… Hang on,_'thought,'_" he interrupted himself, "…you mean, you weren't asleep? Then why did you…!?"

"You were comfortable." Sherlock said matter-of-factly as if there was no other point to be considered.

John lay aghast. Although Sherlock was always taking advantage of him in one way or another, he wouldn't have imagined Sherlock would ever consciously lay with his head in someone's lap, it would seem too …sentimental, or submissive. "_You_ pretended to be asleep while I wasted my time just sitting there so I wouldn't disturb you?!" John whispered incredulously.

"You could have gotten up." Sherlock dismissed John's complaint. "You seemed perfectly content watching that stupid game show. Anyway, I found your head-scratching surprisingly conducive to thinking."

"I was not…!" John faltered, he hadn't been aware of scratching Sherlock's head, but it _was _plausible for he'd been in the habit when he'd had a dog of absently scratching it's head whenever it lay on the sofa with him, and he _had_ been distracted by the telly.

"You were." Sherlock affirmed.

John tried to push him back once more, rather feebly, "Anyway, at home there was no one there to see us and make the wrong conclusion." He glanced nervously over at the sleeping Lestrade. "But _this_ is in _Bed,_ in a hotel with…"

"How is this any different than the sofa? This time I _do_ intend to sleep, and I'd rather you not be tired and cross tomorrow. Clearly we cannot sleep comfortably on separate sides of the bed, and the floor will leave you stiff. This is the only solution."

"What!? No. Sherlock. Seriously, Lestrade is right over there, he…"

"He already assumes we're together, you can't stop him thinking it even if you deprive him of evidence." Sherlock planted his face in the pillow beside John's head as an end to this discussion.

"But…" John continued to protest, though weakly this time.

"Just shut up and go back to sleep, John." Sherlock mumbled into the pillow.

John felt he shouldn't give up so easily, but he knew Sherlock was infinitely stubborn, and he himself was too cold and too tired to put up more of a fight, especially while the subconscious part of him that wasn't preoccupied with social implications welcomed Sherlock's warmth. It was a bit of a toss-up whether freezing or being being found trapped beneath Sherlock in morning was the worse fate, but it seemed he didn't have a choice in the matter. John sighed in resignation as his frozen limbs began to melt, and, not knowing what else to do with them, he let his arms rest draped across Sherlock's back, eagerly absorbing the warmth of his skin.

In the thick silence which followed, John was all too aware of the sensation of Sherlock's body pressed against the full length of his own, bare chests, bare stomachs, bare legs, so very close he could hardly breathe. All his conveniently dismissed thoughts from earlier flooded back to the forefront of his mind. He_knew_ Sherlock wasn't 'making a move' on him, and yet… He could hardly believe that Sherlock was willing to share not only the blankets, but this level of closeness with him, for in spite of his skewed sense of personal boundaries, Sherlock always managed to maintain an air of aloofness which John did not sense now while he was laying limp and half-asleep in his arms. Sherlock's rare moment's of vulnerability always caught him off guard, but John had to admit he _did_ like the sense of significance he felt at being the only person ever allowed to see him without his air of mysterious superiority, even if those moments weren't exactly enjoyable. Sherlock had rationalized this odd embrace as merely practical, but John was certain he wouldn't have done this with anyone else; he doubted anyone besides himself had even _seen_ Sherlock actually sleeping (not just pretending to), let alone held him while he did so. Sherlock was not affectionate, but, practical or not, this was certainly bordering on that and John wondered just what significance it held and whether Sherlock was even aware that this solution had only suggested itself to him because it was with John. That Sherlock _would_ think of it as an option demonstrated how much they took for granted the level of intimacy that had developed between them. He was disturbed to realize that in the privacy of their home he himself had hardly stopped to think about what he was doing when he had shifted Sherlock's lolling head onto himself so he could sleep more comfortably. He'd nearly forgotten that evening until Sherlock had bought it up. Was it possible there really _was_ an element of attraction at work behind their actions that neither of them was aware of?

For several minutes John lay there feeling awkward and stiff and self-conscious, but the extra warmth and weight on himself seemed to lull him into a state of relaxation, and as he slid back into half-consciousness all his protests dissipated, giving way to a sense of cozy contentment. With all his worries aside, he was filled with a sense of kinship and comfortable familiarity between them which made this closeness feel almost normal, in fact. While John let himself absorb that feeling he realized his awkwardness really was only in relation to other people's evaluations of him, and that in moments when they were alone they easily fell into habits which resembled the day-to-day interaction and mutual understanding and cooperation of a good 'relationship,' just without any sexual undertone to their banter or touching. They really had grown _very_close, and it had to be that sense of unspoken understanding and shared purpose that people picked up on when they saw them. Suddenly it all made sense. They were in tune with each-other, they were open and at ease in each-other's presence, and they shared a life to a degree that friends usually didn't. In his groggy state, John felt no negative reaction and simply let the realization percolate through his mind, steeping his memories and previous assumptions in this new perspective. _A couple, huh? Well, perhaps it really wasn't so impossible to imagine._

He turned his face slightly toward Sherlock, feeling once more the soft, tickling sensation of Sherlock's hair against his cheek. This was, actually, rather nice; he couldn't argue that. It felt good to have this tangible assurance that Sherlock was here and safe. Lestrade's reminder that closeness with Sherlock wasn't something to take for granted prodded John's mind again, and he suddenly felt a bit guilty about his protests to this arrangement when he considered that Sherlock was, in fact, being uncharacteristically thoughtful of his discomfort, even if his solution was not what John had had in mind. John felt even more guilty thinking that he probably usually met Sherlock's odd attempts at kindness with similar ingratitude because of his own awkwardness, and he wondered if perhaps his reactions might affect Sherlock more than he would ever admit. He wanted Sherlock to know that he_ did_ appreciate him, even if he seemed exasperated with him more often than not.

"Sherlock?" John's whisper was small and tentative.

"Mm?" came Sherlock's grunt to indicate he was still awake.

"…I'm glad your back safe, and that you're getting some sleep" John murmured.

"I _would_ be if you weren't talking." Sherlock grumbled.

"Oh, right. I forgot it doesn't matter if someone cares about you so long as they don't inconvenience you in any way." John replied indignantly.

After a moment, Sherlock mumbled, "You matter."

"What?"

Sherlock shifted his head so his mouth was close to John's ear and less smothered by the pillow. "To me, you do matter. I'm still alive because of you, and despite what you think I don't take that for granted. It _does_matter that you care for me." His voice was slow and sleepy, but he still managed to sound as though he was tediously explaining something to someone who was dim-witted. John understood his words for the apology and 'thank you' that they really were, however he was still a bit annoyed that Sherlock always had to sound irritable, even when he was being nice, so he allowed himself to quip back.

"Oh really? What happened to 'Caring's a disadvantage?' I thought you wanted _me_ to stop caring about others too."

"I care about _you_. …whether or not I think I should." Sherlock mumbled, and John was surprised that it didn't sound begrudging this time. Something inside him almost leapt at this, and he nervously pushed it back.

"Well, you have a funny way of showing it." He replied dryly.

"So do you," came Sherlock's slurred retort.

"What do you mean?" John asked, though he was pretty sure now the guilt that had prompted him to start this conversation was indeed perfectly founded. Irritation wasn't only _Sherlock's_ specialty, after all; they were both habitually impatient with each-other over different things.

Sherlock groaned at this conversation dragging on, but mustered his response,"Your esteem is contradictory. You defend me from others only to insult me yourself."

"How do I…?" Of all the things Sherlock might have complained about, John hadn't anticipated being accused of 'insulting' him; nagging, yelling at him, being impatient, yes…but insulting? Did Sherlock just tune out all the times he told him he was brilliant? _How typical of him._

Sherlock let out a long-suffering sigh, "For example, I don't understand why you're so offended when people assume we're a couple. Gay or not, is it really necessary to make a scene every time, John?"

He hadn't really expected Sherlock to care about that and was startled that his earlier worry about hurting Sherlock's feelings might actually have been near the mark. Obviously, the main issue wasn't his 'making a scene,' even if Sherlock tried to mask his indignation with that less personal irritation.

"But…we're not…" John floundered, not knowing how to address the heart of the matter himself.

"That's irrelevant. You wouldn't object so loudly if they assumed you were with some attractive woman, even if you weren't, because you'd be _flattered,_ and you wouldn't want her to think you thought she was ugly." Sherlock's mutter was edged with resent.

"Well, I suppose…" John had to admit this was true, though he'd never considered the suggestion about the two of them in the same light.

"Am _I _really so repulsive that you take the idea as an insult? Is all your flattery meaningless?" Sherlock's low murmur was solemn and almost sounded genuinely hurt in spite of his characteristic attempt to keep his feelings removed from whatever he said.

"No, no not at all, that's not what I…" John hurried to reassure him, but then the words jammed on his tongue and he trailed off. Until tonight, he hadn't considered the fact that, to others, his fervent rejection of the suggestion that they were a couple might look just as derisive toward Sherlock as the more direct insults he received. "I'm sorry," he mumbled at the same moment that Sherlock mumbled something as well which John thought sounded like 'good.' After a long pause while John wondered if he had heard right and whether Sherlock actually cared if John thought him attractive or not, he gathered up the courage to ask in a breathless whisper, so quiet he half hoped Sherlock wouldn't actually hear it, "Do you… wish we were?"

As John bit his lip for having been so rash, Sherlock's own lowered whisper crept into his ear, "Are you so sure we're not? The evidence does seem to suggest…" His tone was somewhere between teasing and genuinely musing on this.

John didn't know what to make of that, and lay awkwardly silent. He could almost feel the back and forth tug of more unspoken words between them on this touchy subject, almost as though the thoughts that they didn't know how to form into sentences could use the touching of their heads as an alternative mode of transport. It seemed they both hung in a state of uncertainty over just what to allow themselves to feel or consider, but even this shared ambiguity lent them a greater sense of oneness which they hesitated to admit. After a few more minutes, Sherlock shifted, burying his face again, this time more in John's neck than the pillow. And with that, the unspoken conversation ceased, inconclusively, and John sensed that Sherlock was asleep again.

They say holding an expression on your face can evoke the feeling which normally engenders it. John mused that perhaps in the same way,_ acting_ affectionate could cause one to feel affection. In any case, as he held Sherlock he found himself irresolutely fighting a growing sense of affection for his best friend, which, at the moment, felt strangely not weird. He had no idea what he ought to think, or what he was beginning to think whether he ought to or not. He still couldn't tell what Sherlock really felt for him, nor how much Sherlock would ever allow himself to admit. It was all too much for his weary mind to process just now, so he left it to simmer in the back of his mind as he let himself drift into unconsciousness. Hardly aware he was doing it, John breathed in the scent of Sherlock's hair and adjusted his arms just a little closer around him.


	4. Chapter 4: In The Shower

**Love and Friendship Ch.4 - In The Shower**

John was one of those people blessed with the ability to wake up whenever he told himself he needed to, so at six-thirty sunlight began to filter through his eyelids and he drifted toward consciousness in a bubble of warmth and comfort. However, any reason he ought to be waking up refused to present itself to his foggy mind so he did not grasp at alertness, but simply let himself float in the sensation of coziness. He was aware that he was laying with someone, and some part of him knew it was Sherlock, which at the moment seemed a comfortable, obvious, and natural fact. Of course. They were always together. Who else would it be? None of the further implications of being together_ like this_ occurred to him. During the night their bodies seemed to have melted together, and in the disorientation of sleep John was unable to tell what parts belonged to him. He moved his arms experimentally and the velvet softness of Sherlock's sides brushed that of his underarms. It was delicious. His arms were no longer pinned down, for one of Sherlock's arms had curled up around their heads under the pillow and the other had somehow slipped under John's arm to switch places with his against his side. Before he could work out why he ought to quell the urge, his arms slid further round Sherlock, indulging in that silky softness, and his fingers traced their way along Sherlock's spine and up into his hair. That, too, was luscious. Contentment swelled inside him. This was a beautiful morning.

Gradually the shreds of nebulous thoughts and impressions reconstituted themselves into the knowledge of where he was, and with whom, and why, but he was still in that removed state on the edge of sleep where the world and its cares seem to be something one can simply observe with no direct concern to oneself. It occurred to him that this might even be a dream. He lay quietly soaking in the sensations of their legs tangled together, of Sherlock's body draped heavily over his own, of Sherlock's breath softly touching his neck, the heat of Sherlock's forehead against his cheek.

John's growing consciousness half-heartedly reminded him that he was supposed to find this awkward. He tried to make himself _not_ dwell on how smooth Sherlock's skin was, but he couldn't tune out the sensation of it all around him and he felt a heightened sense of how delicate and precious this body was. The idea of how easily it could be lost to a bullet, or a knife, or a fall, and what a great a loss that would be, impressed itself on his mind. He felt a flare of fierce possession and the desire to protect Sherlock. It was incredible that this competent, independent, brilliant, arrogant man lay limp in his arms, innocent and vulnerable in his sleep. It gave John a sense of importance and strength. Sherlock would never entrust himself to anyone else like this. But then the image of Sherlock laying in Irene's arms, presented itself to his mind. _No!_ He mentally blurred the imaged into some vague impression of any other person, but he still felt sick inside at the thought. _No. He didn't like that at all. No._ Everything in him rebelled at the idea of someone else becoming closer to Sherlock than himself. And that was it. The missing piece that fell into place with a little 'ping' in his brain. He almost laughed at himself. _So it's alright if you can't have him just so long as no one else does?_ He could hardly believe it, but there it was.

Sherlock made a small groan and nuzzled further into the crook of John's neck, twining his limbs closer round him and dragging a pillow partly over their faces, obviously trying to escape returning to consciousness. Automatically, John responded to Sherlock's nuzzling with a gentle squeeze and turning his face a touch further into Sherlock's hair. He caught himself too late and lay awkwardly a moment wondering if Sherlock was awake enough to have noticed this response, and if so, what he thought.

…_Well, Sherlock wasn't making any further response, either positive or negative._

John's brain reminded him they probably ought to be getting up, although he couldn't say he exactly felt like shattering this precariously nice moment just yet.

"Good morning." John whispered tentatively, now at last beginning to feel a tinge of embarrassment. Or perhaps it was more that he was embarrassed by the fact that he_ wasn't _as embarrassed as he'd expected himself to be. He wasn't quite sure.

Sherlock breathed in deeply and then groaned again. After a moment he mumbled "You slept alright, I trust."

"Fine. …Great." John couldn't help adding. "You?" he inquired hesitantly.

Sherlock shifted and breathed in deeply once more, stretching in a way which caused him to squish even closer if that was possible.

"Superbly." Sherlock practically purred in his ear.

"Yeah…" John agreed breathlessly, a little shaken by the admission of the fact that they'd both enjoyed this, but no longer feeling compelled to deny anything that might further the perhaps-not-so-wrong conclusions. At least not to Sherlock. It felt as though, softly, silently, _something_ (he wasn't entirely sure what) had somehow changed between them as they'd slept snuggled together thus.

They continued to just lay there together for several minutes, which stretched into several more minutes. Sherlock's voice had, rather unnervingly, turned John's limbs to jelly and he didn't think he was capable of moving an inch just then, even if he'd wanted to. Sherlock made no attempt to stir either, and John felt the unspoken thought stretched between them that they were both loath to give up this moment, even if they weren't quite sure what it signified.

"No point in getting up 'till Lestrade's out of the shower." Sherlock finally mumbled a perfectly reasonable excuse for them to stay put. Only then did John notice the sound of the shower running and realized Greg must have seen them laying like this when he'd gotten up. He felt himself turning a bit red at the thought. He still wasn't sure how much of a couple he could believe, or was ready to admit, they were, yet he couldn't seem to muster up the will to move and save them the awkwardness of Greg watching them getting up together when he returned. He'd probably expect them to kiss and be lovey-dovey, and in spite of their current position John couldn't quite imagine real affection between them once they were fully awake, even if it turned out they were …maybe, possibly, unofficially, almost more than friends? There was no knowing how Sherlock would deal with that possibility once he was actually alert. He'd likely try to appear even more emotionless than usual, a thought which John normally would have taken comfort in, but instead he felt a bit deflated. John didn't want to think about getting up at all, if only they could stay half-asleep like this and avoid the awkwardness of reality; he dreaded when it would finally hit.

In the mean time, John determined not to think about anything. For now he was extremely comfortable and he let himself become fully absorbed in enjoying the sensation. The boundaries of his own skin still seemed rather blurred with Sherlock's, for they had slept quite warm and were in fact sticking together in many places. John twitched a toe and discovered it had somehow lodged itself between Sherlock's toes. That seemed oddly too intimate, yet he couldn't be bothered to unlink their feet. As they breathed in together his attention shifted to the feeling of Sherlock's stomach against his own, which fluttered involuntarily. That startled him and his breath caught. This close together, it seemed as though Sherlock must no doubt have been able to feel it in his own stomach as well. John wasn't ready to deal with _that_ just yet, and tried to redirect his thoughts before his body could do anything else that Sherlock really _would _notice.

Breakfast was certain to be nice this morning. Hopefully he could persuade Sherlock there was time enough to stay and enjoy it. Even if Sherlock was bound to just sit there absorbed in the morning paper ignoring everyone, John knew he wouldn't be able to enjoy it as much without him. It made no sense that he liked Sherlock's company so much, but…inexplicably he really did prefer him to anyone else he knew. All Sherlock's irritating quirks were so familiar to John now that even when he complained, he didn't really mind them and often found himself privately amused when others didn't know what to make of him. _John Watson, you don't know what's good for you,_ he warned himself even as he nudged his face softly against Sherlock's head in an experimental not-quite-a-kiss and let his nose stay buried in Sherlock's hair, a thing he had never imagined doing and might never have the chance to do again. He breathed in deeply the unexpectedly comforting and familiar smell and let out a contented sigh as he felt himself slipping back into unconsciousness.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

John was jerked awake as Sherlock suddenly pushed himself up and reached for his phone on the nightstand. A second later Sherlock was scrambling over him out of the bed. "Get up! We've overslept." He said curtly "We're to be there in twenty minutes." John was still rubbing his eyes as he tumbled out of bed after him when Sherlock shut the toilet door.

"Oof." John groaned trying to shake the grogginess from his head.

Lestrade had obviously gone down to breakfast by himself ages ago, probably too embarrassed to wake them.

John sat on the edge of the bed and grimaced as he ruffed up his hair and stretched his shoulders. He looked blearily at the time on his phone, then reached dutifully for his clothes. Before dragging on his trousers he glanced at the toilet door. He had to pee, rather badly actually, but he'd just heard Sherlock turn on the shower. _Going to hog it for what little time we have_, John thought irritably. _Maybe he's trying to avoid me?_

He stared at the door. There was nothing for it. He didn't have time to wait around and Sherlock would be behind the shower curtain right now anyways, so he knocked on the door and called through it, "Sherlock?"

"Yes, hurry up, John." Sherlock called back.

It took him a second to convince his hand to turn the knob, but his bladder wouldn't allow him any further hesitance. At least he didn't have to worry about Lestrade watching them go in there together, not that that would have made any difference at this point. John winced at his own thoughts. Whatever their relationship was, he determined he wasn't going to bother undeceiving anyone anymore. Even if Sherlock was an arrogant bastard, he felt terrible knowing he'd made him feel 'repulsive.'

Once inside, however, John's embarrassment suddenly lessened, by some miracle, and as he stood just on the other side of the curtain from Sherlock it felt strangely normal, simply going through daily routines side by side. He shook his head with a wry laugh and glanced at the curtain where he could make out Sherlock's vague shadow.

"Well are you getting in?" Sherlock demanded, and John nearly jumped in shock.

"What?" He stood frozen on the matt.

Sherlock's head poked out then "Oh come on!" he rolled his eyes, dismissing John's look of blank terror. "Your modesty is tedious. You need a shower and we haven't time to take turns so you'd better just get in. Surely you've showered with other men before in the army or sports at school, no need to be shy with me." He popped his head back inside.

John stared at the curtain. Sherlock sounded perfectly normal and practical, as if their waking up together and now _this_ was nothing unusual at all.

John remained just standing there on the matt and this time Sherlock's wet hand shot out to tug at John's arm.

"Yes, alright!" John cried shaking him off and nearly tripping as he hurried to peel off his pants, hardly believing how little power he had to resist anything Sherlock commanded him to do.

With soapy hands on John's shoulders, Sherlock ushered him under the water and then made sure the curtain was closed properly. John closed his eyes as the hot water ran over his face, but not before he'd caught a complete glance down Sherlock's lean, white body, and the image had tacked itself to the back of his eyelids. Since the view was no different anyway, John opened his eyes again while Sherlock quickly finished scrubbing himself and thrust the little bar of soap at him. Hoping the heat of the shower would explain away how beet-red he must have looked, John made to slip past Sherlock once more so he could rinse off, but in the cramped quarters their bodies inevitably brushed against each-other. John wondered that the water didn't just hiss off him in a cloud of steam right then.

Standing under the stream of water, Sherlock's upturned face with closed eyes and slightly open mouth was positively erotic and after gaping a moment, John quickly turned to face the wall while he scrubbed himself so that he wouldn't get caught ogling Sherlock. With his back to him, however, John wondered if Sherlock just might be ogling_ him_, as ridiculous as the notion seemed.

Then, as if he needed any further embarrassment, while John was scrubbing one of his feet he began to loose his balance and nearly toppled through the curtain, but, even more disastrously, Sherlock caught him against himself and held him steady with his hands on John's hips. John was utterly mortified and stood frozen once again, desperately trying not to feel Sherlock's wet skin sliding against his own or his warm fingers curling over his hip bones. _Oh god. Not entirely straight then?….no apparently not._

"Hurry and do the other." Sherlock said, not letting go but sounding as disinterested as if he'd been saying 'after you' while holding a door open. Not that Sherlock _sounding_ disinterested meant he really was, but it did help to dispel John's momentary panic. He curled over attempting to hide himself as he quickly washed his other foot, begrudgingly grateful for Sherlock's support. Here, again, was Sherlock being thoughtful in a way that John was likely to snap at him for. Instead, he managed a nervous "um…thanks" as he stood up and indicated he was ready to switch places once more.

This time, as they maneuvered around each-other, John didn't bother to attempt to prevent their bodies from touching, since they already were, and it wasn't like he could _really_ hide anything from Sherlock anyway. _Well, at least he'll know he's not unattractive now._ John hid his face in the water and to his relief he sensed Sherlock was already stepping out. John longed to remain under the water for another half hour and collect himself if he could, but they hadn't time, and a minute later he shut it off and made himself step out onto the matt.

He immediately reached for the towel rack but found it empty. Apparently by some oversight, there were only two towels, the one Greg had obviously used, hanging wet and wrinkled on the hook on the back of the door, and the one Sherlock was rubbing vigorously over his head.

Sherlock suddenly emerged from the towel with his curls standing out wildly. It was quite endearing and John couldn't stop himself staring. _He's almost cute_, John thought to himself, trying to control the smirk that attempted to overtake his lips.

He stood awkwardly dripping on the matt as he watched Sherlock, not knowing what to do with himself. He was just glad Sherlock was absorbed in drying himself and didn't seem to be taking any notice of him. He felt the urge to turn away, but then decided acting embarrassed would only make him feel more stupid since Sherlock didn't seem to think anything of this. It was kind of infuriating how he could always keep his cool. _But would I really want him not to?_ John asked himself.

Sherlock shot him a very quick glance while he was bent over drying his legs which threw him off balance and he had to hop forward a couple of steps to compensate.

S_cratch that, he __**is**__ cute, even if he'd hate anyone thinking that. _John fervently wished he had something to wrap around himself right then. _Stop gawping!_ He admonished himself. _He couldn't believe this was happening to him!_ _He didn't know __**what**__ was happening to him! How had they ended up in this situation?_ The worst part was that he wasn't even sure whether this trip was turning out to be a disaster or …not.

Sherlock stood up, now quite a bit closer to him, and fixed him with those intense blue eyes. John swallowed awkwardly and couldn't meet his gaze. Instead he looked past him at Greg's wet towel, deciding he'd better stop wasting time and just use that. He made to step past Sherlock to reach for it, but instead found himself wrapped up in Sherlock's towel.

"Hurry up." Sherlock commanded as he strode out, leaving the door open. John thought he'd caught a hint of a wink as Sherlock had turned round, but he couldn't be sure. He clutched the towel gratefully and grabbed his pants, quickly drying himself off as he followed Sherlock back into the room where he'd left his clothes.

Sherlock was already putting his shoes on by the time John was zipping up his trousers, but to John's surprise he didn't hurry off without him. Instead, he stepped closer as John pulled on his shirt and reached for his collar, buttoning from the top down as John worked from the bottom up. John was too flustered to refuse his assistance, though he felt himself growing a bit warm again with Sherlock standing so close over him with his hands on his shirt. Sherlock seemed bland as ever, but could this really _not_ be _…flirting?_ When their hands met in the middle Sherlock caught John's cuff and buttoned it as well.

"Where's my jumper?" John asked, glancing about and avoiding looking up at him.

"Never-mind that." Sherlock said grabbing his other arm and pulling him toward the door.

John craned his neck round still looking for it as Sherlock impatiently buttoned his other cuff.

"It'll be warm today. Come on!" Sherlock urged.

_Trust Sherlock to know the weather forecast. _John gave up and let himself be dragged out the door, struggling to tuck in his shirt and not stumble. Although waking up late had made things exceedingly awkward, John thought that perhaps it was still less awkward than if they'd actually had the time to try and talk about what exactly they were to each-other, or more likely avoid it with long strained silences. _Perhaps they would just never bring up this whole weird night and morning ever again._ But although he needed time to sort himself out inside, that thought filled him with a sickening fear.


	5. Chapter 5: Why Would I Want Breakfast?

**Love and Friendship Ch. 5 - Why Would I Want Breakfast?**

As the door clicked shut behind them, John felt almost as though they'd left some alternate reality behind and re-entered the real world where everything would continue as it had always been. Sherlock strode ahead of him down the hall with his characteristic swift, business-like air, just like usual. For all John could tell, Sherlock was completely focused on the case and totally unconcerned with the questions that were plaguing his own mind as he hurried after him.

_Was Sherlock Holmes actually just flirting with me? Were we really cuddling this morning? Could I have truly fallen in love with him without realizing it? Are we a couple now? Or does he honestly have no clue what his actions seem to imply and is only being practical? What should I do? What do I even want? Did I seriously get a hard-on with him in the shower just now? Is there any way he could have not noticed that? Does he even care? And even if he does, how much of a relationship might he actually want? Am I just imagining things because of what Lestrade said? _

While his mind spun, John's eyes latched onto Sherlock's back a few paces ahead of him to guide his way. Although he wasn't quite aware of it going on simultaneously with his other thoughts, he became so absorbed in watching the way Sherlock's hair fell on the back of his neck, how his shoulder blades gave shape to his shirt, how his waist angled in toward his belt, and how his trousers fit his bum that the rest of the hall was a blur and he tripped when they reached the top of the stairs and had to grab hold of the rail to steady himself. Sherlock glanced back at the sound with an annoyed but concerned expression. John quickly nodded that he was fine to forestall any more offers of assistance Sherlock might have tried to make. _I can certainly walk down stairs by myself!_ John thought irritably, although in actuality he wasn't so certain of that at the moment while he was inwardly reeling from the revelation that he actually _could_ feel sexual arousal for another man, or at least for Sherlock specifically. He tried to wrench his mind back to the present moment by focusing on the paisley carpet of the stairs and attempting to recall the details Sherlock had explained over dinner for the upcoming interview.

The urgency of getting to their appointment on time, and the case in general, was certainly a welcome diversion from puzzling over whether he should take Sherlock's help in the shower and with buttoning his shirt as impatient condescension or romantic affection, but unlike Sherlock, he knew he would not be able to put everything else out of his mind today for the sake of the case, no matter how much he might want to. _Sherlock_ would probably continue to put _this_, whatever it was going on between them, out of his mind even after the case was over, John thought bitterly. It would be just like him to stubbornly avoid any discussion of feelings or his true motivations, and it seemed likely that if John never took on the awkward burden of bringing it up himself, Sherlock never would, and even if John did, Sherlock would never give him a straight answer.

John grimaced. _Did Lestrade have any idea what a can of worms he'd so 'thoughtfully' opened?_ He stopped himself. _No, it wasn't Lestrade's fault. But damn Sherlock for his… _

At the bottom of the stairs Sherlock turned and looked up at John again, and John's breath caught at the sight of him staring up from under his raven curls. If he was honest, he'd always found Sherlock's gaze a bit heart-stopping, now doubly so. Sherlock's eyes flicked down John's body and back up as though checking if he really_was_ okay and telling him to stop dragging his feet. John faltered a moment under his scrutiny. For the first time, he wondered if Sherlock found him attractive. _Did Sherlock ever evaluate people in such terms? Or was it only facts like: 'Didn't sleep in his own bed, shaved 2 days ago, was given that shirt as a gift from a woman, who could only be his sister.' _

John cleared his throat awkwardly and nodded to the dinning room. "Lestrade's probably waiting in there." He said to distract himself and fill the silence. He lingered two steps above Sherlock, waiting for him to get out of the way so he wouldn't have to step down right into him, although some part of him must have been hoping for just that as he found himself stepping forward anyway before Sherlock had quite begun to turn away. They did not, however, embrace, or collide, or even touch as Sherlock lead the way across the lobby.

As expected, they found Lestrade in the dining room surrounded by the remnants of what looked to be a several course breakfast. He was leaning back leisurely from the table with a cup of coffee in hand as they approached.

"Nice morning." Lestrade commented with a smirk that indicated how he thought they'd spent it. John tried not to turn red.

"Quite. Shall we be going?" Sherlock replied brightly (for him), brushing off any further pleasantries and getting straight to business.

_Well, he seems to be in good spirits. _John wondered why exactly, and tried to study Sherlock's face out of the corner of his eye. _Was it just anticipation of solving the case, or might it in fact have to do with spending the morning together, dangerously close to the way Lestrade's smirk implied? _ John's stomach went a bit queasy as the sensation of Sherlock's chest against his own last night and his hands on his hips this morning hung all too real in his memory, and he couldn't have said whether it was from hope or dread that Sherlock's mind might _not_have been similarly engaged.

Lestrade remained eyeing them for a moment, his smirk broadening, but he didn't make any further remarks as to his thoughts. John followed his gaze up to Sherlock's head and now noticed against the bright background of the sunlit windows that his curls were still sticking out all over the place since Sherlock hadn't touched his hair after drying it. John couldn't help a bit of a smirk himself, in spite of feeling a little embarrassed at what Lestrade might have been imagining about them to account for it and the fact that his own imagination was finding it a little too easy to follow in that direction. His fingers curled compulsively as they remembered sliding through Sherlock's hair and holding his head just a couple of hours ago.

Sherlock probably didn't care what he looked like, but John couldn't help the impulse and reached up to comb his hair a bit. His hand hesitated only once it was too late to retract the gesture and so he resolutely pushed aside his self-consciousness and just did it. Sherlock grimaced down at him, but didn't dodge his hand. _That was surprisingly submissive of him_, John noted. _Anyway, Sherlock deserved to get a little of his own back after his unsolicited 'help' with John's buttons and he didn't care if he was making him feel like a kid having his face washed with his mother's napkin. He rather _looked_ like a kid just now, all bright-eyed and disheveled. He really was adorable in his own exasperating, roguish sort of way. 'And this isn't the first time I've thought that, now is it?' _John realized.

Lestrade stretched and stood up. "So where is this place?" he inquired, swirling the dregs of his coffee and finishing it off.

Sherlock whipped out his phone and consulted the map.

"Back in a minute." John said, hurrying over to the buffet table, thinking wistfully of the breakfast Lestrade had obviously enjoyed. He took a banana and put together a sort of breakfast sandwich for himself with eggs and bacon between a couple slices of toast, but to his dismay he discovered they didn't have any paper napkins for him to wrap it up in.

"You're not going to get something?" he observed disapprovingly as he rejoined Sherlock and Lestrade by the doorway to the lobby.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Spare me the lecture on metabolism, _Doctor._" He muttered loftily, but as John fixed him with his gaze Sherlock suddenly relented and leaned over and took a bite from the sandwich clutched in John's hand.

"Satisfied?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow challenging John to protest and John held his gaze with a wry expression for a moment, but didn't say anything. He heard Lestrade chuckle as he strode ahead of them toward the front entrance.

Lestrade didn't make for the car, however, so John concluded their destination must be close, though he _was_setting a brisk pace. John simply followed Sherlock, keeping him in the corner of his eye, while he attempted to keep his unwieldy sandwich intact while he ate. He felt very silly, what with the banana bumping his cheek every time he took a bite, but if he attempted to change his grip at all he was sure the whole thing would just fall apart.

John was vaguely aware, as they walked side by side, that Sherlock was adjusting his pace so as not to leave him behind, a courtesy he rarely bothered with, and that moreover, Sherlock was walking close enough to him that their arms occasionally brushed. It seemed they were taking turns glancing at each-other, but their eyes never quite met. With all his previous assumptions brought into question, John was desperately trying to decide just how he ought to read Sherlock and he wondered if Sherlock might be trying to determine the same thing with him. _Surely the change isn't just all in my head._ Sherlock's brief sidelong glances at him were completely inscrutable, yet he definitely felt a deeper sense of togetherness, as though some invisible wall between them had dissipated.

John was chewing a bite that had ended up too large from trying to save a piece of egg that was about to fall when Sherlock caught hold of his wrist and leaned in for a second bite, his lips partially encompassing John's fingers in the process. John stopped dead, but Sherlock kept hold of his arm, pulling him along close by his side. John forgot to chew for several seconds as he stared up in astonishment at Sherlock. In the past, John would have simply dismissed this, even if he'd been startled, but now he asked himself if Sherlock had really always been as forward as he was this morning. Sherlock's air still _seemed_ completely normal in spite of the fact that he certainly appeared to be flirting. _Did Sherlock even know what flirting was or that he was doing it?_ John gaped at Sherlock's profile as he stared ahead chewing impassively. He hadn't a clue what to make of him. Sherlock flicked a glance at him out of the corner of his eye and John remembered to close his mouth and swallow.

When they came to a halt at a corner where they were obliged to wait for the light, Lestrade seemed content to continue their silence from the day before, and simply stood with his hands in his pockets, although John could see he looked pleased as he glanced at the two of them. Sherlock let go of John's wrist as John awkwardly finished off the last bite of sandwich and dusted his hands of crumbs before starting to peel the banana. Although the sun was shining bright and fresh on the other side of the street, promising a fine afternoon, the morning breeze here on the shady side cut right through John's shirt, which he noticed more keenly now that he was standing still. As if John had said as much aloud, Sherlock shifted behind him so that John's back was right against him, neatly blocking him from the breeze. Standing as close as they were, it felt as though social custom demanded that either Sherlock wrap his arms round him or that John step away. They did neither.

'_I bet Lestrade's thinking I'm still letting him get off easy.' _John risked a glance at him, but he was looking the other way as if trying to give them space.

John took a bite of the banana, then looked at it a second before convincing himself he ought to offer some of that to Sherlock as well. _Are _you_ going to flirt now too, John?_ A voice in his head taunted him. _Oh, shut up!_ He snapped at himself. He turned to face Sherlock and held the banana up inquiringly, half expecting him to refuse anyway, but Sherlock leaned in for a bite after all. As Sherlock's mouth closed around it John suddenly wished he'd chosen an apple or _anything else_ instead and quickly dropped his gaze, feeling a bit red in the face. _ Was it too much to hope that Sherlock was oblivious to the innuendo which sprang so unwelcomely to John's mind?_

At that very moment the light changed, to John's immense relief, and they were all turning away and walking across the street. Momentarily distracted by looking at the traffic, John automatically started to take another bite, but the moment his lips touched the slightly gooey-er part where Sherlock's lips had been a second ago his stomach did a sickening flip and he had to force himself to just take the bite and not think about it. '_No. Sherlock would never…not with me…would he? Do I really want that?'_ It seemed his tentative acceptance that he wasn't strictly heterosexual had introduced a critical crack in some mental floodgate, and now he found himself scrambling to catch all the thoughts and feelings which kept slipping out, no longer under his control. He couldn't help glancing up at Sherlock again and, halfway across the street, the sun suddenly washed over Sherlock's porcelain profile eliciting another little twinge in John's stomach. _Alright yes, he is beautiful…and annoyingly captivating…and….god am I really falling for him? _He forgot to look away before Sherlock glanced down and caught his eye.

An odd sort of smile just barely twitched the corner of Sherlock's mouth, impossible to decipher, but John's heart fluttered, and might have soared right out of his chest if he hadn't torn his eyes away and turned determinedly down the street after Lestrad, quickening his pace. He feared his thoughts were completely transparent to Sherlock and suddenly felt unable to face him, no matter what his disposition toward him might be.

Sherlock met his stride, but did not overtake him. John decided he really didn't want any more of that banana and tossed it in the next bin they passed without bothering to offer it to Sherlock first.

They rounded one more corner and then Lestrad paused, looking expectantly at Sherlock. "This should be it." He announced, nodding at the door.

Sherlock swept past him up the two steps and pulled the door open. John caught it and let Lestrade enter ahead of him.

It turned out to be a little used book shop specializing in rare editions and antiques. The air was thick with that particular smell of old dusty pages and seemed to absorb any noise they made coming in. The tiny bell that tinkled on the door sounded distant and did nothing to rouse the shop-keep from the hidden depths behind the counter.

After a moment of standing about awkwardly in the silence, Sherlock slipped off between the rows of shelves, and Lestrade meandered toward a glass display case at the end of the counter, glancing through the dim doorway beyond, and then turning to squint at the musty volumes in the locked cabinet while they waited for someone to come.

John stepped up to the counter, glancing all around for signs of life other than themselves. "Um… Hello? Is anyone…?" he began to call out when a muffled thump sounded in the back and a second later a young woman appeared through the door.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "I'm so sorry I didn't hear…" she apologized.

"Oh hello." John smiled. It was one of those cases of instant rapport; their warm smiles effortlessly reflected and amplified each-other. Had they met any other day than this, John would have already been searching his pockets for a scrap to write her number on. But today he was all muddled, and as she began to lean ever so slightly over the counter, John found himself glancing away distractedly in search of Sherlock amongst the stacks.

"Can I help you?" she prodded, glancing the same direction a moment, before settling back on John's face to await his attention. Her voice was gentle. John shook himself and looked back at her since Sherlock had seemed to have disappeared anyway.

Lestrade caught his eye as he came over to join them and shrugged to indicate they might as well forget Sherlock for now.

"We're here to see er… Elizabeth Whitman? Are you…?" John began, feeling a bit guilty that he had serious business to address and couldn't honestly return the spark of interest he saw in her eyes. She was pretty, and sweet, and perfect, and he really wanted to 'like' her, but he just couldn't. Not when he'd just been showering with Sherlock. Not when his insides tumbled madly at that memory.

"Oh no," she laughed, "I'm her niece, Laura. But we were expecting you. She mentioned you're a detective?" Obviously this impressed her and John blushed awkwardly.

"Uh, no… just his f-friend." He glanced at Lestrade, and she finally looked at him as well.

"Uh, yes." Lestrade cleared his throat. "We just had a few questions…"

"Of course." She nodded, "If you'll come round the back, shall I put on some tea?" She motioned them round the counter and John gave one last reluctant glance around for Sherlock before following her, wondering what he expected them to ask if he wasn't going to join them himself, and if perhaps he actually meant them to be a distraction while he investigated on his own. Normally John would have been all too happy to keep the pretty attendant entertained, but at the moment he just felt exceedingly awkward.

She lead them back through a workshop where it appeared they restored and rebound some of their books.

"Do you notice that smell?" John flinched as Sherlock's low murmur touched his ear. He had slipped in behind them out of nowhere. Amid the musty book smell, there was also a sickly-sweet glue smell that would have given John a headache had they lingered in there, but they were lead swiftly through to a parlor-like room at the very back, fixed up as a little home away from home for the owner, complete with over-stuffed chairs and a kitchen nook where a kettle was already steaming.

Elizabeth Whitman turned out to be an elderly lady, not unlike Mrs. Hudson, John mused as she directed them to have a seat and fussed over the inconvenience of visitors so early in the morning while obviously pleased to have new people to chatter to and foist biscuits on. While John and Lestrade made themselves comfortable, Sherlock picked up one of the books sitting out on the little tea table without bothering to ask, and began pacing as he leafed through it. Mrs. Whitman opened her mouth to caution him, but he was quicker, flashing her one of his charming, though condescending, smiles and exclaiming, "Ah, Mrs. Whitman." He reached to shake her hand, introducing himself at last, "Sherlock Holmes, I spoke with you yesterday." He tapped the book in his hand, "This is precisely the volume I was looking for."

"Oh, well, it belonged to my Uncl…" she began what was sure to be a rambling explanation which Sherlock found completely irrelevant and cut her off.

"And you recently restored another copy of this?"

"Yes, yes," she tried to gather herself, quite flustered at not being allowed to proceed with full details, "and, you know, I was quite surprised to see it. The _very_ same edition…"

"Of course it would have to be." He cut her off again, with a low mutter, more to himself than the rest of them. He bent his head so close his nose almost touched the pages and crinkled his brow as he squinted at it, running his fingers eagerly over the stitches of the binding and marbled end pages.

John chuckled to himself knowing that to Sherlock the rest of the room had ceased to exist for the moment, and took advantage of this oblivion to watch him without fear of Sherlock catching his eye. He loved that intense light in Sherlock's eye when he was making mental connections and the aura of energy that surrounded him when he found a case stimulating. John surveyed his lithe form as he paced back and forth and felt an impulse to wrap his arm around Sherlock's waist and feel that body against himself again, marveling that he had in fact done so last night.

John was startled from his reverie when Laura tried to hand him a scorching mug and it splashed on his sleeve because he wasn't paying attention.

"Oh!" they exclaimed at once.

"I'm _so_ sorry!" She cried, hurriedly dabbing at his sleeve with the corner of her angora cardigan.

"No, it's fine." John tried to assure her so she wouldn't spill anything else in her nervousness. "Don't bother, you'll ruin that." He insisted, pushing her hand back gently, and giving her a kindly smile. She smiled in relief and nodded her thanks, then ducked back to the kitchen to fetch two more brimming cups.

Meanwhile Mrs. Whitman had turned to Lestrad and continued her account of the two books and how her uncle had come by the one and her surprise at seeing another and the man who had brought it in.

"Did you notice his shoes?" Sherlock suddenly asked. It was incredible the way he could pick up everything that was relevant to him and yet nothing else.

"Shoes?" Mrs. Whitman and Lestrade both asked dumbly.

"The man with the other copy! Did you note his shoes? What size were his feet? _Useless._" Sherlock finished under his breath as everyone stared at him blankly.

Laura handed Mrs. Whitman her cup and received a quick "Thank you dear" in the midst of the immediately resumed narrative. Still holding the other mug uncertainly, Laura then turned to John, softly laying a hand on his shoulder as she nodded toward Sherlock who was pacing again. "Do you think he wants any?" She whispered. John went a bit stiff at the touch. He didn't want to encourage her, but he didn't want her to think he didn't like her either. He glanced awkwardly over at Sherlock only to discover he had stepped right in front them and was already taking the cup from Laura's hand.

"Stop flirting, he's not interested." Sherlock glowered down at her, plucking her hand from John's shoulder as he settled himself between the two of them on the arm of John's chair.

John knew he should have felt aghast at Sherlock's ill-manners, but just then he was quite relieved, and felt secretly flattered by Sherlock's apparent possessiveness, though he quickly reminded himself it might only be that Sherlock knew John was attracted to him, not that he had any personal interest in him remaining so. _And yet…'The evidence does seem to suggest…' _ The memory of Sherlock's low murmur last night made him shiver. The evidence, _indeed_, seemed to suggest Sherlock was flirting and yet because this was _Sherlock_ John couldn't be certain that any normal expectations applied to his interactions. Sherlock didn't seem to quite understand when Molly flirted with him, and yet he was so astute other times it seemed impossible he could be so naive. Just now he knew Laura was flirting, but… he never seemed as aware of his own feelings when they leaked out, so perhaps it was plausible that he would be blind to such feelings in relation to himself?

_John, your knife._

"John!" Sherlock's voice suddenly broke through his thoughts.

He suddenly realized the others had been discussing the case for some time, but he hadn't caught anything that had been said and could only hope he hadn't been staring dumbly at Sherlock for so long that they'd noticed.

Sherlock didn't bother to repeat himself again, and simply dug in John's pocket himself.

"What 're…!" John nearly jumped at the wiggling sensation next to his leg as Sherlock wormed his knife out.

"Left mine in my coat." Sherlock explained quickly, then before anyone could stop him, he deftly slipped the knife around the edges of the end paper that was glued to the front cover of the old book and pulled out a folded paper that had been concealed underneath. "Ah!" he exclaimed in pleasure. "Just as I thought."

Luckily everyone was now staring at the bit of paper and not at John as he closed his eyes feeling very hot, and not from the tea. In their search of his pocket, Sherlock's fingers had caught a rather sensitive point in the crook of John's hip and the sensation of soapy skin sliding against him this morning had sprung to mind quite vividly once more, eliciting the same reaction as it originally had. _Okay. Fine. Yes. Alright. I obviously want him. Just don't let everyone notice that right now, _John thought desperately. After the very clear evidence in the shower, not to mention his mind all morning, there was really no way he could pretend any more that there wasn't a part of him that definitely wanted Sherlock. As disturbing as that was to him when he'd always believed himself to be straight, the feeling that hit him like a bolt out of the blue was …relief. With the question of '_could I actually have sex with him_' out of the way, John discovered his mental taboo on admitting how much he loved Sherlock was gone and he felt a kind of crazy freedom dawning in him.

While the others watched enwrapped as Sherlock carefully unfolded the paper, John watched equally enwrapped by Sherlock himself: his precise fingers, the slight tug of his shirt across his chest, the curve of his neck, his eyes, his lips, his boyish excitement and smug pleasure with himself, his tousled curls, his lanky limbs,_everything_ about Sherlock was endearing to him. John felt pride and affection for Sherlock swelling inside him, no-longer strangled by the belief that those feelings were impossible.

He smiled vaguely as Sherlock scanned the paper and then went about explaining it's significance in the context of the case. John's ears seemed to be drinking in the sound of his voice without registering the meaning of anything he was saying. John had never felt entranced by another man's voice before, but there was certainly something about Sherlock's which had quite an affect on him. Perhaps that explained why he always did whatever Sherlock asked.

John shook himself and tried to focus on the actual conversation.

"Obviously you returned the wrong book when the man, a _different_ man, came back to collect this." Sherlock concluded, glancing down his nose at Laura.

"Y-you mean, someone died because I…" She stammered, horrified.

"Remarkable how often small, seemingly unrelated details can have such far reaching effects." Sherlock commented impassively, as though her point had been the concept, not the tragedy.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade cried indignantly before John had managed to do the same.

Sherlock turned to him, equally indignant at the reprimand. "It is your failure to consider the relevance of such details that causes the actual chain of events to elude you. " He stated coldly.

John laid a hand on Sherlock's knee and gave him his own quelling stare. Sherlock broke off the icy glare between himself and Lestrade to glance down at John. He pursed his lips in annoyance, but seemed to accept John's judgement where he had resented Lestrade's. John knew Sherlock hadn't intended to blame her outright, even if his lack of sympathy had made it seem so.

"You can't blame yourself, Laura," John said kindly, "You didn't force anyone's hand."

"Quite so." Sherlock quickly agreed, the nearest to an apology as he would go.

"Y..ou said, a different man returned for it?" John asked, just now noticing that Sherlock had made a point of that.

"Yes. Obviously."

"But, how could you know…?" Really, John knew better than to question Sherlock's facts, but he could never help himself when things were so often _not_ obvious to anyone else.

Sherlock just smiled smugly, "I think it's time we payed the owner of this book a visit." He said, getting to his feet. "However, I think we shall leave _this_ in your care for the moment." He added, slipping the paper back into its hiding place and handing the book to Mrs. Whitman with an almost dashing flourish.

"B-but… You don't suppose the murderer will come here looking for it?" She fretted.

"Perhaps." Sherlock replied ominously before disappearing into the workroom.

Lestrade opened his mouth to offer some kind of reassurance to the two ladies who were looking rather pale, exchanging an awkward glance with John, but he was obviously too worried about loosing Sherlock at the moment to think of anything appropriate to say. He simply nodded and then dashed out as well.

"Um, sorry…er….thanks." John muttered, nodding at the tea. "Be careful." He should have been offering Laura protection, asking her to lunch, leaving his number, but beyond all reason as he stared sweet perfection in the face, all he wanted was Sherlock. Even if that was impossible, he couldn't allow himself to lead anyone else on as a substitute anymore. _Don't get your hopes up,_ John tried to tell himself. _This is Sherlock we're talking about. Even if he does care for you, he's an infuriating git. Do you really want to put up with that for the rest of your life? _

He gave Laura one last apologetic look, then hurried after Sherlock.

_John Watson, you have gone insane._


	6. Chapter 6: Take my Hand

**Author's Note:** I'm so sorry it's taken so long to update this story! It's turning out much longer than expected, especially this chapter, though I hope that's not a bad thing :D I have basic outlines now for three more chapters after this one actually. I just hope I can manage to write them a bit faster. I've been hung up on figuring out the details of the crime. This chapter has a few more details about the case, though not a lot, and of course several awkward opportunities for closeness. I've indicated texts with dashes - like this -

* * *

**Love and Friendship Ch.6 - Take My Hand**

When John burst out the bookshop door, Lestrade was standing on the sidewalk looking this way and that bewilderedly.

"Damn!" Greg muttered. "Where's he got off to now?"

John came to a halt beside him with a shrug. It was an all too familiar scenario, and while with any other person they could have just called and found out where he'd gone, Sherlock often didn't bother to answer his phone when he was engrossed in something, simply assuming that communication was a waste of time and that everyone_should_ be able to keep up just fine without it.

John pulled out his phone to try texting Sherlock anyway and was surprised to see he had 21 missed messages. Sherlock must have beat him to it then, though there had hardly been enough time to send that many, even if he_was_ impatient. John puckered his brow, wondering if his phone had got set to silent somehow 'till he noticed the time on the first message: 11:23pm, from last night then. He felt sorry he hadn't woken up after all. John forgot all about Lestrade for a moment as he read through the messages.

- 11:23 This is boring. -

- 11:25 John? -

- 11:28 Are you still trying to explain things to Lestrade? -

- 11:28 It's pointless. -

_He must have seen Greg looking at us and assumed I'd try to explain._

- 11:38 This might take longer than expected. -

- 11:39 You shouldn't have left the window open for me, the room will be cold. -

- 11:40 I'll text you when I'm coming back so you can open it. -

_How did he know I'd left the window open? _

- 11:47 I should have let you come, it would've been more interesting. -

_Is that his way of saying he misses me?_

- 11:51 Are you ignoring me, John? -

- 11:52 You know that's a juvenile tactic. -

_He really must have been missing me. _

- 11:57 Look, I'm sorry I embarrassed you. -

_Speaking of 'juvenile tactics,' Sherlock. _

- 11:57 You were interested in that waitress. -

_Any man would have been! …Well, except him. Wait, was he… jealous? _

- 11:59 Honestly John, breast size is hardly a sensible criterion by which to determine someone's potential compatibility as a life companion. -

_Typical Sherlock. And that wasn't all I noticed, after all._

- 11:59 Neither are dimples. -

_Of course _he_ wouldn't understand the attraction of a charming smile._

- 12:00 Nor do such things guarantee sexual enjoyment, which itself does not guarantee satisfaction in life, John. -

_Well, no but… Is he? …Is he trying to persuade me that I don't need a girlfriend …that I should be looking …elsewhere? As in, perhaps… him? That I should be satisfied with what I already have? Am I just reading things into his texts now?_

- 12:01 Anyway, she already has two boyfriends. -

_How could he possibly know that?_

- 12:02 You deserve better. -

_What does he mean 'I deserve better'? Is that a round about way of saying he thinks _he'd_ be better for me?_

- 12:25 I may have ruined your jumper. -

_What did he do to my jumper?!_

- 12:30 I presume you're asleep. -

- 12:31 In case you're not, I'm coming back. -

_Somehow that almost sounds sort of…Lonely? Disappointed?_

- 12:31 ten minutes. -

John stared at his phone. Lestrade was hovering at his shoulder wondering what Sherlock had said, but John ignored him as he tried to assimilate all this with the rest of last night and today. Sherlock _could_ have been annoyed about the waitress just because he thought John's interest in romantic relationships was a waste of time, but then again he really might have been jealous. He'd definitely been missing John's company at any rate. John felt fondness swelling in him as he read through the messages again. It was kind of cute, actually. _Sherlock jealous and lonely, who'd have thought? _ John wasn't quite ready to believe that Sherlock was really in love with him, but the case in favor of that possibility was certainly gaining strength.

John looked up at Lestrade, mustering his resolve to re-open the subject of relationships. "D-do I… do that a lot? Stare at him without realizing it?" he glanced at the bookshop to indicate _like I was doing in there just now. _When he'd caught himself a few minutes ago he'd had the sneaking suspicion it wasn't the first time.

Greg chuckled. "Yeah."

"Er, right." John wished he hadn't asked after all, since it meant it really had been obvious that he was spacing out watching Sherlock.

"So does he." Greg added.

John's gaze snapped back to Greg's face at that. "Seriously?"

He chuckled again. "He's always glancing at you when you're not looking and he gets that glint in his eye, you know like when he's smug about something."

"Really?" John muttered in shock.

Greg's face broke into a half-grin, "I told you it's not much of a secret."

John stared blankly across the street, stunned. He knew that smug, proud-of-himself look so well, but to imagine it being directed toward him… _Sherlock feels proud of…me?_

Suddenly his phone chimed as a new message alert came up on his screen. It was Sherlock instructing them to hurry up and meet him two streets east and one street south. John showed Greg and they exchanged a glance that said _'That's Sherlock for you.'_ As Greg set out down the street, John glanced back at the bookshop window where he could now see Laura dusting shelves and Elizabeth puttering about behind the register. It struck him that it was rather a habit of his to leave the girl behind in order to help Sherlock. _Is it such a surprise that I'd be in love with him? Perhaps I really have been enamored of him from the start._ He shook his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he thought of their strange friendship. From the day they'd met, Sherlock had inexplicably become his top priority. _ I might be crazy, but I just can't help it. _ John turned and hurried to catch up with Lestrade.

When they rounded the corner two streets east, they spotted Sherlock halfway down the street amidst a group of people boarding a quaint old rail car that was probably still in operation mainly for the sake of giving the town that old-time charm. Sherlock caught sight of them and motioned them to hurry, as he obviously didn't intend to wait for the next one to come around. They jogged toward him, but before they'd quite made it to the boarding stop it had begun to trundle forward. It was coming in their direction, however, so Lestrade quickly stepped into the gutter, caught the handrail, and hopped up on the front steps of the car as it came past. A second later, Sherlock reached out to grab John's hand and help pull him up beside himself at the back end of it before it had passed them by. John caught hold of Sherlock's arm to steady himself a moment as they swayed on the bottom step and they shared a smile of satisfaction at their success. Sherlock dropped some coins in the slot for their fares, then turned and began to worm his way through the narrow center isle to the front of the car, dragging John behind him by the hand. John tried not to step on Sherlock's heels, or anyone else's feet, as he followed close behind.

"Sherlock?" He tried to ask over his shoulder. "Sherlock, what did you do to my jumper?"

Sherlock turned back toward him for an instant and John saw a glint of amusement hovering behind that serious expression of his. "Nothing, but I knew that would get your attention if you were ignoring me." He didn't wait for John's reply as he turned round again, yanking John to his side when he didn't immediately follow.

"So, so that's not why you…" John trailed off, knowing it was pointless to continue.

"Why aren't we taking the car?" Greg asked, as they joined him. "It's a long walk from town isn't it?"

"This is more discrete. We'll arrive at the estate with a tour group. No need to put them on guard." Sherlock explained.

"Ah." Lestrad nodded, then turned back to face the window, watching the buildings roll past.

John stood there feeling a little unsure how to act around Sherlock now that he realized he had feelings for him and had nearly convinced himself that Sherlock returned them, at least to some degree. He shifted his feet and suddenly became aware that Sherlock was still holding his hand. John froze. _Has he simply forgotten to let go?_ He felt as though he ought to let go himself, but he didn't. Cautiously, he glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock was standing there, casual as you please, staring away out the window with John's hand clasped firmly in his. John's stomach did another summersault. He glanced down, now hyper-aware of Sherlock's palm against his own, feeling as though his hand was growing abnormally sweaty. John felt ridiculously conspicuous, as though this was a public proclamation of their togetherness, even though he couldn't be certain whether Sherlock was even aware he was doing it.

"I um…, I wasn't ignoring you last night." John said quietly, trying not to feel awkward and hoping Lestrade wasn't paying attention.

"I know." Sherlock responded without looking at him.

John turned his attention to the window as well, quite used to Sherlock's habit of letting conversations drop. It_almost_ felt perfectly normal, standing in silence together, side by side, …hand in hand. Or at least it felt as though it could become normal. They already shared a strong sense of camaraderie and commitment to each-other. Adding this tangible connection between them in an everyday situation really wasn't as awkward as John would have expected. For the moment he could imagine being like an ordinary couple together. John hoped that if Sherlock_ was_ unaware of holding his hand he might remain so for a bit longer.

Sherlock took out his phone with his free hand and tapped away at it with his thumb, texting apparently. John couldn't help thinking it would have been easier with both hands free. _Holding my hand must be intentional then,_he was just thinking to himself when his phone chimed in his pocket. He pulled it out with creased brow.

_He's standing right here, and he sends a text. Why am I not surprised?_

- But you _were_ discussing our relationship with Lestrade. I told you it was pointless. -

_He just has to point out he was right about something, doesn't he. _John thought. _Well at least he's showing some evidence of tact_. With Lestrade standing right next to them it would have been rather awkward to have him in on this conversation here in public. John quickly switched off the sound on his phone and then texted back, trying to look as though he just happened to be texting someone as well, certainly not the person he was standing right next to.

- Actually he did most of the talking. -

Sherlock glanced at Lestrade with intrerest at that, but didn't say anything. If Lestrade was pretending to ignore them, he was doing a good job.

- Sorry I missed you. - John added. He didn't like feeling like he'd let Sherlock down. Maybe Sherlock didn't really care about apologies, but he still wanted to say it. He was rather surprised he hadn't heard his phone at some point among all those texts, though he had been awfully tired and it would have been muffled by the pillow.

- Thought I'd laid awake for ages, guess not. Lucky I left the window open for you after all. -

- You wouldn't have been so cold. - came Sherlock's sensible reply.

John stared at that. What if he hadn't been too cold? What if he hadn't woken up and tried to get the blankets back? What if they hadn't been 'forced' to snuggle last night? He probably would have gotten up early and had his nice breakfast. Would he have been texting Laura now instead? How long would it have taken for him to realize what he felt for Sherlock? Would he ever? Sherlock's recent words came back to him:_ 'Remarkable how often small, seemingly unrelated details can have such far reaching effects.' _

"Lucky." John murmured to himself. Sherlock must have heard him for John felt him turn his gaze on him for a moment. _Had Sherlock intended to counter his comment, or _had_ he meant it as 'lucky you were cold'?_

A minute later the tram swayed to a halt and Sherlock herded them toward the steps. As they disembarked John suddenly found both his hands were free again. _Well that was interesting._

They were now in the old town square. About fifteen paces away from the tram stop there was a sign for tours of the countryside and historic manor house; Sherlock had obviously done his research. It turned out, however, that the morning tour didn't leave until ten and it was only just nine-o-clock. They stood looking about at the shops a moment considering how to pass the next hour.

"I think we could all do with a change of clothes." Sherlock decided and set out toward the old bank building which had been turned into a department store. John and Greg followed of course, although they both shared a look of reluctance. As nice as clean clothes would have been, shopping for them wasn't exactly how either of them would have preferred to kill time. Nor would they have expected it of Sherlock.

At least Sherlock was not one for browsing aimlessly. His eyes darted over the racks and he moved through them with an air of purpose.

"I really don't need…" John began to say as he followed him, not looking at any of the shirts and jumpers they were brushing past.

Sherlock handed him a shirt without turning around. "You've got tea on your sleeve, and most of your shirts are old anyway."

John glanced down at the shirt, it was nice, but… "I'm fine. It doesn't matter…" He blundered at excuses shaking his head as he tried to keep up with Sherlock who thrust a pair of trousers at him next. John took them automatically as he trailed along behind him.

Sherlock flipped through a rack of sport coats as he explained. "Didn't you see the sign? The 3 o'clock tour is canceled today to make preparations for a party this evening. Depending on how things go we may need to attend it. People judge each-other by their appearance, though they usually draw the wrong conclusions, and with tea on your sleeve and mud on your trousers, John, we will not obtain an invitation."

"Yes, alright!" John said impatiently, resenting Sherlock's patronizing tone. _It's not as though he hasn't got dirt on his trousers too._

John sighed and glanced around. It appeared Greg had begun to take some interest in this venture after all and had drifted off toward a rack of socks. Now _that_, John decided, was a very good idea after all. His socks had gotten a bit muddy yesterday, and he couldn't say he'd relished pulling them on again this morning.

Sherlock seemed to have read his thoughts, for he said, "Get a pair for me as well, black, and you'd better warn Lestrade about tonight."

John glanced down at the items draped over his arm as he made his way toward Lestrade. He seemed to have acquired a second shirt and a jacket, which were all in his size and to his taste, not that he was very particular. He mentioned the possibility of the party this evening to Greg, who would have rather been back home by then, but agreed to find himself something appropriate and meet them by the dressing rooms in a few minutes.

John caught up with Sherlock again by a display of ties. Sherlock glanced at John's things and handed him one, then continued toward the dressing rooms.

"What about…" John began.

"I don't wear ties." Sherlock stated.

"Well what happened to making the right impression?"

Sherlock simply glanced down his nose at him and kept walking.

The store had only just opened and all the dressing stalls were empty, but as John headed into the first one, Sherlock was right behind him.

"Sherlock, what are you…?!" Sherlock's stern look silenced him.

Sherlock closed the door behind them, hanging his things on the hook in the same motion and then leaned close to John in the little stall, murmuring, "Mercy or Justice?"

"What?" John asked, taken aback. "F-for whom? Why?"

"Regardless of the circumstances involved, Lestrade is bound to serve justice, but I am free to deal mercy. Which would you have me choose?" Sherlock explained in earnest.

John felt a bit too warm and not very philosophical at the moment with Sherlock crowding him against the wall in a dressing room. _Was Sherlock really unaware of how suggestive this was?_ John creased his brow and glanced down. Sherlock's chest was invitingly near his own, once again conjuring memories of the previous night. Normally John would have reached up to push Sherlock back at this point so he could have space while he thought things through, but John was afraid if he touched him now he'd just end up pulling him closer instead. So, he decided to let him hover over him like this if he wanted to, wondering how Sherlock would interpret the change of habit. John spoke slowly as he tried to think seriously a moment, "I suppose… mercy. …I think it can change people when justice might not."

Sherlock nodded his acknowlegement, glancing down and away as John stood staring at him. John wouldn't have expected Sherlock to think about that and felt honored that he would ask his advice. Suddenly Sherlock seemed to snap out of his own thoughts and began quickly undressing. John kept staring, startled that Sherlock intended to stay in this stall and wondering if he expected John to find another instead. Even if Sherlock wasn't concerned about privacy, he'd have thought he would find the tiny space too inconvenient.

"Well don't just stand there!" Sherlock urged, reaching over to tug John's shirt out of his trousers to galvanize him. "Lestrade will get suspicious if we take too long trying things on."

"Er…Right." _Nevermind it's already suspicious that we're in here together. _John busied himself unbuttoning his shirt, though he glanced at Sherlock several times as he shed his.

"There were three sets of footprints in the field yesterday." Sherlock went on in a low voice as he shifted his shoulders inside the shirt he was trying on and threw a glance at the mirror.

"Yes." John nodded, thinking back to yesterday and trying not to act odd while he pulled off his trousers to try on the new ones. Sherlock was doing the same.

"But I only mentioned two at dinner last night because I'm not positive of the third person's role yet."

"Okay… so he may or may not be guilty?" John straightened and caught a look at himself in the mirror. He had to admit Sherlock had chosen quite well for him.

"He is most certainly responsible, but his intentions are unclear." Sherlock clarified.

"Oh?" John paused, catching Sherlock's eye, very curious to hear his explanation.

"That man was not beaten, he was trampled." Sherlock asserted. "The third person went to the other side of the field, then came back to the body." Sherlock handed John his second shirt to remind him not to dawdle.

"You think he caused a stampede?" John guessed as he hurriedly took off the first shirt.

"Cows don't just trample people without something to rile them up. What we don't know is whether it was an accident or intentional, and whether or not he was an accomplice."

John puckered his brow while he pulled on the second shirt. "If it was meant as a cover up, wouldn't they have left his body in the field?"

"Exactly," Sherlock's eyes sparked with approval of John's logic, "but don't assume they were working together."

"And you really think neither of them is the lorry driver we've got in custody?"

Sherlock gave him a quelling glare before he continued, "It's possible I saw one or both of them last night. Remember I said someone was watching us. I followed him home; he's at the hotel. Not sure how he's involved yet, but he took an odd route and stopped to stare at another house on his way. I came back past that house and saw a teenager I'd noticed eyeing us earlier at the pub come out and place a small suitcase in their rubbish bin underneath some other bags. I checked its contents: the clothes were the right size and there were a couple of books, nothing to suggest anything we don't already know, though, so I left it there. _The boy_ must have retrieved the man's bag from the hedge, but it may not be necessary for me to mention this and implicate him. Anyway, the trash won't be collected until tomorrow morning."

"Oh, I see." John muttered solemnly. The minute the kid was mentioned, he'd be questioned and held suspect on account of possessing evidence, and trying to dispose of it. Even if he hadn't been in on the murder itself and was only guilty of discovering a suitcase in the hedge, getting him mixed up in the case and court procedures and charges of tampering with evidence could cause him a great deal of trouble with parents, school, and so forth. Unless they confirmed he was involved or possessed vital evidence it would be kinder to leave him out of it completely. John eyed Sherlock with a new kind of respect. Sherlock really was learning to be a good man after all, even if Greg wouldn't consider withholding evidence a good thing. "…Are we trying on clothes just so we can have a private chat?" John asked as the thought struck him.

"Well, that's not the only reason," Sherlock glanced over their new ensembles with a satisfied nod. "Though Lestrade did notice us texting."

John once again caught a trace of a smirk as Sherlock turned to put the jacket he'd tried on back on it's hanger. When Sherlock turned back to him John was still staring at him warily, struggling to gage his intentions.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, having read his mind. "Oh please. I have no need to invent an excuse to watch you undress, John. It's only been an hour and a half. I fail to see the significance of seeing someone naked. This morning was hardly a revelation. It's not as though I haven't seen it all before or can't tell what sort of figure you have underneath your clothes." He turned away muttering, "Stupid, the way people immediately assume sex is the underlying motivation for everything. You don't _really_ think I'd choose a public dressing room if that _was_ my intention." He snorted in disgust.

John cleared his throat uncomfortably and muttered, "er…no." _Of course. He should have known. It was silly to think that Sherlock would think about his body as, well…more than just a body, just like all the other bodies he'd examined on a lab table. Still, it didn't necessarily rule out his being attracted to him for other reasons_. While John could hardly believe that Sherlock would ever fall in love, neither could he truly believe that sleeping together, showering, and holding hands could mean nothing at all, even to Sherlock.

"So there _is_ a party, then?" John confirmed, trying to get back onto a safe topic as he reluctantly took off the new trousers.

"Yes." Sherlock replied grimly, obviously not looking forward to it even if it did turn out to be necessary.

"We might have to stay another night?" John tried to sound neutral about that idea, though now he was _not_hoping against having to share the bed again.

Sherlock paused and gave him an odd look before pulling his own trousers on again. "You should get both shirts just in case." He advised.

After a moment of somewhat thick silence, John made another attempt to get his mind back on the case.

"Last night you followed the man back to the hotel. What took so long?"

Sherlock groaned. "He stopped at another pub first and I had to wait around there till he left." He explained bitterly as he buttoned up his shirt. John chuckled at the thought of Sherlock twiddling his thumbs in a pub and being forced to order himself drinks and listen to all the boring conversations going on around him. He wondered how many people Sherlock had managed to offend without himself there as a buffer to humor the chatty drunks.

Sherlock gathered up his things and leaned against the door while John finished putting his own clothes back on for now. Once John was dressed, however, Sherlock didn't wait to walk out with him, which John hoped made it less obvious that they'd been changing together since they met Lestrade just on his way in.

"I'll only be a minute." Greg assured them.

While Lestrade disappeared into the dressing room, Sherlock wandered off toward the front of the store and John was torn between following him and waiting. In the end he decided to just head for the register at the front, assuming Greg would know to find them there. Sherlock was just finishing at the check-out counter when John caught up with him.

Sherlock pulled out his phone, "The lavatory's upstairs," he said as he presumably texted the same to Lestrade.

Once John had purchased his things they headed upstairs to change for real this time. To John's relief there were exactly three stalls in the men's lavatory and Sherlock didn't try following him into one. After a moment, however, Sherlock's hand appeared over the top of the divider with a pair of underpants. John gaped at them. They appeared to be new.

"John." Sherlock said waggling them impatiently.

"Sherlock… You did _not_ buy me pants." John said incredulously.

"I bought them for myself, but they should fit you well enough. They came in packages of three. Now do you want them or not."

John took them. The very last thing he needed was for Greg to walk in and see Sherlock waving underpants at him. He didn't even know where to begin a lecture on how not normal sharing your pants with your mates was …even if they were new. "You uh…don't intend to offer the other pair to Greg do you?"

"No. But I noticed you hadn't thought to get any for yourself, though you've already worn those for two days since we've been busy with the case. That's being thoughtful, isn't it." He explained with obvious resent of John's ingratitude.

The sound of the door opening cut off anything else John might have said as Greg came in and made for the last stall. In the silence that followed John heard Sherlock snapping his plastic tags and passed him his knife.

John felt a good deal fresher in his clean clothes and decided it had really been worth it after all, even if they didn't end up needing to look nice for this evening. Although, he wasn't looking forward to carrying around his dirty clothes for the rest of the day and wondered if Sherlock intended to just throw his out.

When they came out of their stalls, John caught Sherlock's arm and muttered an awkward "thanks" for the second time that day. Sherlock favored him with his _'I told you so'_ look, though he also made a minute nod of thanks as he dropped the knife back into John's pocket. Then he reached for John's bag. He placed his own dirty clothes in the bag with John's, then took the rest of John's new things and put them together in the bag with his, folded that up carefully and put it on top of the dirty clothes in John's bag. _Nice and tidy, and I get to carry it all of course._ John thought wryly.

And of course he was right. Sherlock glanced at himself in the mirror, adjusted his shoulders and sleeves, and proceeded to glide out of there in perfect regal form, leaving John with the bag. Sometimes John felt like his valet, or indeed, he laughed to himself, like his husband. He was beginning to feel very stupid for all the times he'd insisted they weren't a couple. _As if I'd carry around Greg's dirty clothes for him all day, or get Mike's phone out of his own pocket for him; no I'd tell them they could bloody well do it themselves. Yet half the time I don't even stop to think before doing anything for Sherlock. _

John shook his head as he followed Sherlock out the door. How he'd convinced himself he wasn't infatuated with him he'd never know. He couldn't imagine how he had failed to connect the fact that he would certainly never put up with half the things he did for Sherlock with someone who really was _just a friend_. Of course he loved adventure, and of course he was a responsible and caring friend, but it seemed so obvious now that a large factor in his willingness to follow Sherlock anywhere and meet his absurd expectations must have had to do with an underlying desire to stay close and please him at any cost.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Twenty minutes later they were bumping along the country roads in a tour van listening to the driver ramble on about local history. Sherlock was staring intently out the window, as though he could spot clues from there, and John was mainly staring at Sherlock though he pretended to be watching the scenery. Lestrade was across the isle from them, apparently paying attention to the history lesson. John would have found that interesting as well, but just now his mind was flooded with memories of times spent with Sherlock, thinking through how their relationship had developed and all the little ways they'd been growing closer together, which it seemed he had grossly misinterpreted. As he surveyed that familiar face and figure, all those little moments they shared flitted through his mind; the momentary glances, the unspoken understandings, the spats, the private jokes, the crazy chases, the evenings by the fireplace. Looking at Sherlock, he was filled with warm contentment. Previously he would have told himself this was just friendship, but Sherlock was so dear to him it was hard to imagine how anyone else could ever really come before him. John had dated some lovely women; sweet, interesting, fun people, but in contrast to his relationship with Sherlock he now realized that there really hadn't been the same spark, the same rapport, the same …intensity. He'd never known anyone so captivating. Mycroft had been right, he had felt loyal to him almost immediately. He couldn't explain it. He didn't believe in things like love at first sight, and yet… deep down it felt as though he'd belonged to Sherlock ever since that first cab ride together. _I just __**need**__ to be here, by his side. _ The thought that perhaps he wouldn't ever have to move on from the life they now shared felt freeing. _All this time I've been trying to make a separate future for myself that I don't actually want._

John was brought back to the present as he noticed Sherlock reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck for the third time since they'd sat down. He figured there must be a bit of the plastic from the tags still stuck in his collar.

"Here, let me see…" John said as he craned his neck to peer down the back of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock shifted to give John a better angle, and John tried not to choke him as he pulled back on his collar and leaned in close to try and see where it was stuck. It was nice to feel their heads close together for a moment, to feel Sherlock's hair, to smell the familiar scent of him. When he'd done this sort of favor in the past, John hadn't consciously payed attention to these sensations, but the comfortable familiarity of them now indicated he must have enjoyed them none-the-less. Soon John found the offending bit of plastic with it's stretched tail poking through the fabric where it had been pulled to the breaking point. It was caught in the threads and it took John a couple of minutes to worm it out. It seemed as though it would be quite natural at that moment to kiss the patch of red irritated skin on the back of Sherlock's neck, to let his fingers stray into his hair, to stay sitting this close behind him and maybe wrap his arms around him. That's certainly what John would have done with a girlfriend, but as he couldn't be sure how Sherlock might respond he forced himself to resist, _almost_. He took his time tucking in the cloth tags and adjusting the collar properly, letting his hands slide over Sherlock's shoulders to smooth out the lay of his shirt as the finishing touch to his overly meticulous assistance. When he was done Sherlock didn't shift back in his seat, however. He sort of leaned back partly against John and continued staring out the window.

Once again, John keenly felt the absence of some wall that had previously been between them and was filled with a silent sense of togetherness. He fervently hoped he wasn't just imagining things. Though he didn't quite dare to lean his head on Sherlock's or shift any closer himself, he stared out the window over Sherlock's shoulder, cherishing this rare moment for as long as it might last.

John really wasn't paying attention to anything but the feeling of Sherlock leaning against his side when Sherlock elbowed him to get his attention and nodded toward the driver who was just saying, "…but local legend has it that he had been a pirate before his brother died, leaving him the family estate. Although he didn't bring a penny with him when he returned to claim his inheritance, some say he kept a secret hoard somewhere in these very hills."

Sherlock turned and muttered in John's ear, "You weren't paying attention this morning, but it was _his_ secondary will we found in the book, intended for his bastard son. The historian must have realized it was hidden in the book, but was killed before he found it because he had the wrong copy."

They shared a look with Lestrade. As part of a 'local legend' this case could easily become a lot more complicated if rumors began to fly before they'd sorted things out.

A few minutes later they rounded another corner and saw the large iron-work gates standing open and heard the crunch of the gravel driveway as the van circled the lawn that stretched in front of the house. Soon they were climbing out under the looming shadow of the massive stone manor and an old man in a brown tweed suit came down the front steps to greet them. They followed him indoors in a little mob, crowding close together in order to hear his wheezy voice over the echoing their shoes made in the grand hallway.

Their guide rambled on enthusiastically about the marble entry way, the tapestries, the chandeliers, the portraits and the lives of the people depicted in them while they shuffled from room to room. They noticed a prominent sign as they entered the library which read "Please do not touch the books!" at the same moment their guide was reiterating the message, emphasizing how old and fragile many of them were and noting that they kept the curtains drawn in this room to prevent the spines from fading too much, for the windows faced due west and received strong afternoon sunlight which had been ideal for reading in the days before electric lights. Sherlock leaned close behind John and Greg to mutter "Notice that sign has been hand-written, _recently_. They haven't yet had an official one made. I think it's safe to assume it was put there at the same time our book was taken to be repaired."

"You think one of the tourists had figured out the secret?" Greg asked doubtfully.

"So it would seem." Sherlock replied distantly as he turned away to study the room carefully. He wandered along the edge of the group, leaning close to the book cases, peering behind the drapes, and crouching to examine the baseboards with his characteristic disregard for normal social conduct.

"Ehem! Sir," their guide addressed him, "Excuse me, sir, if I may…." Sherlock was completely ignoring him, so John nodded at the old man and caught Sherlock's arm to gently pull him back into the group.

"Anything?" Greg inquired under his breath.

"Nothing of consequence. Our guide smokes a pipe in here sometimes, though he's not supposed to."

John and Greg didn't bother asking how he'd deduced that, and simply followed everyone into the next room before they were admonished for straggling. John thought it unlikely they'd find _anything _of consequence while being herded along with everyone else, though knowing Sherlock, he'd have some brilliant conclusion by the end of this tour, provided he didn't get them thrown out.

Thankfully, after the library Sherlock seemed to be content to saunter through with the rest of them, scrutinizing the rooms from an unobtrusive, standing position. While standing bunched together in a small study John's hand accidentally brushed against Sherlock's, and as if responding to a request Sherlock's fingers curled around John's hand. John's stomach fluttered. There was no question that Sherlock was _choosing_ to hold his hand now. _I'm not going crazy, he must really 'like' me! Sherlock would never just do this for no practical reason, but what other purpose could there possibly be at the moment?_ John glanced away and tried to act as casual as Sherlock was. On the one hand he felt slightly silly, but on the other hand he felt incredibly special. Slowly he tightened his hand in return. Sherlock didn't respond further, but he kept hold of John's hand as they filed out of the room and down the hall, and continued to hold it in the next room and the next as they meandered side by side. He didn't even let go when they ascended a small back staircase where John was obliged to walk behind him.

After being shown through sitting rooms and guest bedrooms on the second floor of the unoccupied wing, they mounted another staircase to the third floor, but this time Sherlock lagged behind tugging on John's arm to prevent him from following the group. Instead, Sherlock ducked back into the room they had just left and waited quietly till the sounds of feet on the wooden stairs had died out. Lestrade had been toward the front of the group and hadn't yet noticed their disappearance.

When it seemed all was clear, Sherlock lead John down the hall to another room they had been in a few minutes ago and crossed quickly to the far wall. John hovered nervously behind him.

"Greg is sure to notice and come back looking for us. Should we wait for him?" He muttered urgently, but of course Sherlock wasn't paying attention. He was on his knees before the fireplace running his fingers along the stones as if inspecting the ashes. He moved the log aside and swept the ashes out as well.

"Come on." He said quietly, reaching up to pull John to the floor beside him while crawling into the fireplace itself.

"Come where?" John began to ask when he saw. This fireplace wasn't backed by stone, but was shared by a room on the other side of the wall.

"This should bring us into the occupied wing." Sherlock murmured to him, climbing awkwardly over the iron log-rack in the center while also ducking and trying not to get his clothes sooty. John did the same and stepped out with him into the dark, quiet room on the other side. Unlike the other rooms on the tour, this one had it's curtains closed and they were obliged to wait a moment to let their eyes adjust.

"We'd better not be discovered." John whispered.

"I hope that _we_ shall discover _them_." Sherlock turned to him and dusted off his back and sleeves in case they had collected any ashes. "It would be a pity if we came out here and no one we wanted to talk to was home." His eyes glinted in anticipation as if this was a delightful game.

"People generally don't take kindly to trespassing." John reminded him, attempting to inspect his trousers for soot in the dim light.

"They don't take kindly to being investigated for murder either." Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. "But caught off guard people tend to reveal things which they wouldn't if they'd had time to prepare themselves."

John simply raised his eyebrows to say _'be it on your head then if we get in trouble.'_ "Shouldn't we put the log back?" He said aloud. Sherlock nodded.

After fixing the fireplace and checking that their shoes weren't sooty, Sherlock smirked at him, grabbing his hand again to lead him across the room and peer carefully into the hall. John suppressed a smirk himself as he leaned close to Sherlock by the crack in the door. This was exactly what he loved about Sherlock, the focused energy, the willingness to go against all conventions, and the brilliance that allowed him to pull it off. Being with him on cases made John feel so much more alive. _I really would follow him anywhere. _Somehow whatever consequences came from their crazy adventures, it never really mattered as long as they came out together in the end. John felt his energy rising in anticipation of the imminent unknown that lay beyond that door, _and_ the new relationship it seemed they had.


	7. Chapter 7: Pirates!

**Author's Note: **There will be at least 2 more chapters after this one, it's not done yet! Thank you for your patience! It will probably be another month before the next one though, judging how much time it's taken me to write most of the others.

* * *

**Love and Friendship Ch.7 - Pirates!**

Sherlock didn't keep hold of John's hand as they snuck around the old manor, now that he was focused on investigating, but John knew better than to expect Sherlock to put up with inconvenience for the sake of being lovey-dovey, even if he had, apparently, decided they were a couple, or at the very least had decided a little affection would not, in fact, cause him permanent brain damage. While John _was_ nervous about being caught, his mind was mostly floating in the unexpected euphoria of the thought_ We're always going to be together like this_, even if they hadn't yet said it explicitly_. _There was a slight lilt to John's step and he let himself touch or brush against Sherlock just a little more than normal as they spied round corners and manoeuvred between pieces of antique furniture. Sherlock seemed to notice the change in his demeanor and glanced at him contemplatively a couple of times, but soon John's mood began to rub off on him, and when for the eighth time they caught each-other's eye for no particular reason they shared a trace of a smile and a sort of spark reflected in each-other's eyes. Their sense of camaraderie felt stronger than ever.

Even in the portion of the house where the family resided, a large number of rooms weren't being used. John and Sherlock went in and out of several guest bedrooms before they found the Master Suite. Luckily its occupants were early risers. After peering through the large old-fashioned key-hole, Sherlock quickly slipped inside with John close behind him and they glanced about. The grand four-post bed wasn't made, but the rest of the elegant room was tidy, though obviously lived in and not just for show as the previous bedrooms had been, as evidenced by the trash-bin full of tissues and the not-decorative plastic hairbrush complete with dandruff sitting out on the vanity.

Sherlock snooped around in his usual manner, bobbing up and down and twirling round as his attention shifted from one thing to another. John smiled to himself as he watched him. Sherlock's movements were comical and yet graceful at the same time.

John did a little snooping himself, trying to gather what sort of people they were, though he was careful to leave everything as it was. Meanwhile, Sherlock disappeared into one of the large walk-in closets on either side of the bath alcove, which was obviously a modern addition, though designed to blend seamlessly with the ornate baroque style of the room. When John checked on him after a few minutes, Sherlock seemed to be taking a particular interest in examining the man's shoe-rack. He was clearly delighted with the organization of the place which made a thorough search much easier. John wandered across to peer aimlessly into the lady's closet, which was also neat and less crowded than he would have expected. Then he stood about surveying the large jacuzzi tub and general finery of the place. He glanced through the archway into the other closet again where he could see Sherlock's feet and backside as he knelt before the shoe-rack, inspecting each pair.

The room made John think of being in a nice hotel, and for a moment he tried picturing the two of them on a vacation together, just relaxing, though it was hard to imagine Sherlock relaxing without simultaneously complaining of boredom, and John smiled to himself again. Sherlock was sure to turn any 'vacation' into some sort of adventure. He wasn't sure how much he should allow himself to daydream along these lines, but he couldn't help picturing Sherlock's face as he'd seen it in the shower this morning, leaning back over the edge of the bath, eyes closed, hair swept back even blacker when wet, a hint of extra colour in his cheeks and lips from the steaming water. John couldn't _quite_ imagine what he'd be doing in the bath with him except staring mesmerized by his unique beauty. Sherlock had such an air of untouchability, it was quite amazing that he, ordinary John Watson of all people, was allowed that privilege. John really was surprised at how natural the lack of boundaries between them felt.

Sherlock stood up quickly and turned to him, and John's mental image dissipated into the equally beautiful reality of Sherlock's eager expression and perfect figure, lean and poised, coming towards him.

"He's not the murderer." Sherlock was saying, "I hoped it wouldn't be that simple."

He came to a halt only a foot or two from John and before John had quite shaken himself back to the present he found his hands had taken hold of Sherlock's arms. Immediately John blushed and let his hands slide back off Sherlock's forearms as he glanced down awkwardly at the tub. _You're in someone else's room, for God's-sake!_ He chided himself, _You're on a case! This isn't some romantic interlude._

But the relaxed curve of Sherlock's fingertips had loosely caught one of John's hands as they slid off, maintaining a tentative connection, neither letting go nor seeking a better hold. Although John wasn't looking at him, he could feel Sherlock's eyes studying him, before he, too, glanced away awkwardly. Momentarily, Sherlock's air seemed to have become more guarded and distant, and John reminded himself that Sherlock most likely thought baths were a silly waste of time, wether alone or with someone else. The thought that Sherlock probably really hadn't been thinking anything romantic at all this morning in the shower nagged at him, and he felt another wave of doubt. But then… the way Sherlock slightly bounced John's hand off his fingers somehow felt both reluctant and playful while at the same time being a definitive _no_, and it made John turn hopefully toward him even as Sherlock turned away to face the gold-framed mirror above the sink. Somehow, looking each-other in the eye through the mirror seemed safer, less intense. When John's eyes drifted down to Sherlock's mouth after a moment, Sherlock broke off the stare, suddenly switching his attention to inspecting the items laying around the sink, then leaning oddly to the side to check the contents of the drawers. John glanced away and took a deep breath. He was shocked by how quickly he was taking to the idea of he and Sherlock being 'together' and felt like he was going to go mad if he didn't find out for sure, but somehow he just couldn't ask straight out. Instead he told himself he just needed to stay focused on the task at hand.

"So, he's not the murderer?"

"He's too tall, and doesn't own any trainers." Sherlock muttered while rummaging in one of the drawers. "The victim was wearing dress-shoes, but all the other traces of prints we found were trainers, and none the same size as those." He nodded toward the closet. It was a bit of a relief, at least, to know that if they _were_ discovered tresspassing it wouldn't be by a murderer.

Sherlock closed the drawer and leaned toward the mirror inspecting his jaw-line. John then noticed that he had a razor in his hand.

"Sherlock! You can't just…" John exclaimed while trying to keep his voice down.

But Sherlock had already dampened his face and begun shaving. _At least it wasn't an electric one that made noise._

"I _think_ better when I've shaved," he explained. "There's a whole package of blades in the drawer, he can certainly afford to loose one of them."

John pursed his lips but didn't bother arguing further. He had automatically reached up to feel his own jaw and was reminded that he was a mite scruffy himself. So, since Sherlock had already used it, John went ahead and took the razor after him, trying not to get his collar wet and hoping desperately that no one would walk in on them. Sherlock leaned against the counter beside him and John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, as if scrutinizing his method.

"If someone finds us…" John said ominously as he tried to finish up as quickly as possible without missing any spots.

Sherlock leaned slightly closer, effectively silencing him, "They won't be coming back soon, the toothbrushes are still damp from recent use. It's a large house, they wouldn't come back up here just for the toilet." He casually traced a finger along John's now-smooth cheek as if to say '_you know you feel better,'_ and muttered "Trust me."

John suddenly felt as though he were burning up and didn't even notice Sherlock taking the razor out of his hand. _So maybe he actually was thinking the same as me about the bath?_ But as John glanced up at him, Sherlock had already turned away from him and was removing the blade they'd used from the razor handle and replacing the original, with an air of cool practicality. John splashed himself with a bit of cold water and made sure the sink looked clean. Though he was pretty sure Sherlock had decided they were a couple now, he still had to wonder if Sherlock was intentionally tantalizing him with these ambiguously romantic exchanges, or if his self control was just slipping, or if he was in fact somehow unaware of what he was doing.

John caught Sherlock's eye and raised his eyebrows to ask _'What now?_'

Sherlock pressed his hands together under this chin, thinking for a moment.

"Call the bookshop." He commanded.

John waited for clarification.

"You got her number didn't you?" Sherlock said impatiently. Or was that _resent_ John heard in his voice?

"Err….no." John realized he must be referring to Laura's number, not Elizabeth or the bookshop itself. "You were the one to call them originally. I don't have it in my phone."

Sherlock shot him a look that seemed to be un-anticipated approval, then pulled out his phone and handed it to John. "Tell her to call the number that was left with that book and say it will be ready to be picked up tomorrow."

"You're not going to have _her_ call a murderer, are you?"

"We want to know if the man who dropped it off thinks he's already got it back. Obviously the call has to come from the bookshop, but the timing has to be right. Get that girl's mobile number so we can text them when we're ready for them to make the call."

After John had made the arrangements with Elizabeth and Laura, Sherlock texted Lestrade to see where he was on the tour and tell him to keep an eye on their guide after it was over and pay close attention if he answered any phone calls. He ignored Lestrade's questions about where they'd gone.

At last Sherlock and John crept out of the master bedroom and down the hall, listening at doors and peering carefully around corners as they continued their unauthorized search. Luckily for them, the population of the house seemed to be concentrated downstairs in the ball-room and kitchen where preparations for tonight's event had already begun. Sherlock was hoping for a chance to secretly observe the man's reaction when the bookshop called, in case they had his personal number, before meeting him, but they had to find him first and as room after room was empty it began to seem quite possible that he wasn't even at home.

They came upon a sort of 'family room' and Sherlock strode across it to listen at a door leading into the next room. John followed him more slowly as he glanced at the very large television mounted on the wall, flanked by handsome wooden book-cases filled with DVDs. He'd just caught sight of a couple of action figures on the coffee table which suggested they had a child, when he found himself stumbling forward as an awkward weight landed on his back and something caught him in the Adam's apple. If he hadn't had 'child' in his mind already, he might have thrown his attacker rather violently to the rug, but instead he let himself fall to his knees and tumble to the ground in submission.

"One move and I'll slit yer throat ye scallywag!" the young boy cried. "Cap'n Longshanks, what shall we do with this treacherous bilge-rat?" John suppressed a chuckle and pretended to struggle as the boy sat atop him. He felt rather sorry for the boy, knowing Sherlock would brush off the invitation to play, though he rather wished he could see Sherlock's face at the moment and tried to lift his own face off the carpet.

"You can kill me but you'll never find where I hid the map!" John choked out, hoping Sherlock might take the cue to play along. He heard a quiet clank of metal and then Sherlock's feet came into view.

"Thought you could outsmart your captain?" Sherlock muttered ominously. "Tie him to the mast!" he commanded. The boy jumped up and Sherlock helped him drag John over to a tall lamp. He hoisted John up by the collar, though John helped by standing up, and the boy pulled John's hands behind his back and began tying them together. John flinched at the feeling of Sherlock's hand at his belt buckle which Sherlock quickly whipped out of his trousers and used to secure John to the lamp, fastening it rather tightly round his chest with the buckle at his back.

"This'll teach you to double-cross your shipmates!" The boy taunted him, slashing the side of his leg with a plastic daggar. John finally saw his captor as the boy came around to join 'Captain Longshanks'. He could have been a small Sherlock with his tousled black hair and rather gangly limbs, and John couldn't help grinning for a moment.

Sherlock exchanged a wink with the boy, "Well done. You can have his share when we reach the island." Then he stepped back, deftly wielding the poker he'd taken from the fireplace like a sword. He caught John's chin with the tip of it. "Perhaps this will loosen your tongue, blackguard." He glared at John with a wicked light in his eye.

At that moment the door Sherlock had been listening at opened and they all froze as a tall man strode in.

It was one thing to be caught trespassing, it was another to be caught trespassing in the awkward situation of being tied up to a lamp and threatened with a poker by your partner in crime. John felt exceedingly embarrassed and steeled himself for the worst.

"Well Liam, who are these brigands?" The man approached them with an amused light in his eye.

"Me 'n' Cap'n Longshanks were just apprehending the mutinous first mate!" Liam explained excitedly, pointing at John with his toy knife. Also like Sherlock, it seemed he had a good vocabulary for a boy of about seven or eight which John would have found cute if he hadn't been preoccupied trying to think how best to explain their intrusion.

John tried to swallow awkwardly with the poker tip pressed to his throat, hardly daring to hope they'd be welcomed by their unsuspecting host. Sherlock flicked the poker away from John and flashed one of his rougish smiles as he pretended to sweep his captain's hat off his head and made a slight bow.

"Sherlock Holmes," He introduced himself gallantly, "and my First Mate, John Watson, at your service, Sir."

"Ah yes, I've seen you in the papers. Please, just call me James," their host replied cordially, shaking Sherlock's hand and retrieving the poker from him. Then he chuckled as he ruffled his son's hair. "I would invite you to make yourselves at home, but I can see you already have," he said with only a hint of reproach, obviously charmed by their playing with his son. "You must be here about Avery." He continued more seriously, patting his son's backside in a way that said 'run along now.'

"Aww dad!" Liam moaned at having his playmates confiscated just when things were getting good.

"They can play with you later." He shushed him, while giving John and Sherlock a pointed glance that said he would consider their entertaining his son as recompense for barging in like this.

John smiled apologetically and nodded to indicate he thought Liam a fine lad. Then he caught Sherlock's eye and glanced down at his makeshift bonds to ask if he could please get out of this now. Sherlock stepped close, looking down at John imperiously with a quiet 'hmmm' as if debating whether to untie him.

"You're enjoying this." John observed only a half-annoyed.

Sherlock smirked and reached into John's pocket again. He didn't touch any sensitive spots this time, but he didn't have to, John's breath caught anyway. Sherlock reached around him and cut the string Liam had tied John's hands with, while John looked up at him in amusement and admiration. He couldn't believe he'd just witnessed Sherlock playing with a child. He didn't think Sherlock liked children, but then perhaps Sherlock had seen himself in the boy just as John had.

"Did you know he was in here?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock's eyes glinted _'of course'_ in response, obviously having enjoyed seeing John caught unawares, and they shared a quiet laugh. Sherlock returned John's knife, then reached around him once more to unbuckle the belt. John was so busy staring up at Sherlock's curls and trying to picture him as a child that he didn't notice Sherlock trying to hand him his belt until he gave up and pushed John's arm out of the way so he could get at his waistband. John's stomach quivered at the feeling of Sherlock's hands at his waist while he threaded John's belt through the belt-loops himself. Sherlock was standing rather closer than necessary during all of this and despite their audience John felt so drawn to him he had to fight the urge to place his own hands on Sherlock's hips and pull him closer still. Sherlock paused to pass his thumb over the spot where he'd poked John's neck, as if checking he hadn't actually caused any damage before stepping back again and turning to their host who was just ushering his son out the door with instructions to play outside for a while.

With charges of trespassing successfully diverted, and a little more space between himself and Sherlock, John began to breathe a bit easier again. For the moment John tried to put out of his mind the fact that that was the second time Sherlock had touched his face in the last hour, and told himself he must not simply stare at him during this next interview.

Their host turned out to be a very good-natured and reasonable man and was more than willing to fill them in with everything he knew about the man who had been working on writing a book of his family's history before he'd turned up dead in a rubbish bin. While they talked, Sherlock surreptitiously texted Laura who presumably called about the book, but they didn't hear any phones ringing and had to assume someone else had taken it to be mended. Moreover, during the conversation it became apparent James had no idea there was anything going on with the book or the legendary treasure. Satisfied with his innocence, Sherlock informed him of the matter and suggested they take a look at the place indicated in the hidden will, which he remembered word for word.

"The murderer is counting on removing unguarded treasure with no one the wiser. If there _is_ anything there, announcing its discovery will foil his plan." Sherlock explained. "I doubt he's prepared to attempt an actual heist."

"_If_ there is anything." James seemed rather skeptical of that. Then his brow creased as though he'd just had a thought. "You know, there's an old colleague of Avery's who contacted me about continuing his work the same day I found out he was dead."

"Sounds a bit eager." John commented.

"I'm not pointing any fingers," James said diplomatically. "But, I could introduce you to him tonight if you like. Shall I have my wife add you to the guest list?"

"Please. I should like to meet him." Sherlock agreed with a glint of anticipation in his eye.

James pulled out his phone saying, "So I don't forget," and called his wife right then. "Hello, Alice?" he paused, looking as though he was attempting to get a word in edgewise while she immediately began rattling things off to him. "Yes, fine. Yes. Alice, addition to the guest list. Sherlock Holmes plus one." Sherlock glanced at John as if to see whether he would rush to clarify that they weren't a couple, as per usual. John simply looked down awkwardly to where their knees were brushing as they sat beside each-other on the couch, hardly believing he was now hoping to be what he'd tried so hard to prevent people from assuming. Sherlock's gaze didn't help with his inward embarrassment at having to eat his words, even if James didn't know his history.

"Yes, that's right. Put them near that Williams chap can you? Yes, I know." They gathered from James' face that Alice wasn't pleased about re-working her seating arrangements.

Sherlock's phone vibrated and he pulled it out to check the text. John leaned closer to catch a glimpse. It was from Lestrade, telling them the tour guide had indeed received a phone call about the book and had seemed genuinely glad to learn it was finally ready, which ruled him out of being involved with the murder.

"Oh, there's actually three of us." John spoke up, while Sherlock proceeded to text Lestrade back. "Detective Inspector Lestrade is here with us as well."

James caught John's eye with a look of mild displeasure at the prospect of having to negotiate further amendments, but hurried to interject again, "An Inspector Lestrade will be coming as well. Right. No. I'm sure you'll manage. No he's outside. He'll be fine. No I haven't. Alice, he'll be… Right, love, bye." He slipped his mobile back into his pocket and smiled, "Well that's settled. Shall we have a look at this buried treasure?" Though skeptical of the legend, he seemed game for a little adventure anyway.

Soon they were all setting out across the grounds together, shovels in hand, which they'd obtained discreetly from a tool shed in the garden. Sherlock warned against recruiting any extra hands since they didn't know who else may have been involved in the plot. They were, however, rejoined by Lestrade who glowered a silent reprimand for ditching him, and by their aged tour guide who tagged along despite muttering complaints under his breath about the steepness of the hills and the hidden potholes in the thick, springy turf. Liam spotted them from a distance and raced over to join them as well. After hearing what they were about, he was quite exuberant about the prospect of _real pirate treasure_ and quickly enlisted them all as sailors on his pretend vessel under the command of Captain Longshanks. Sherlock seemed a little unsure how much to play along in front of the others, but ran ahead with Liam while everyone else maintained a more reasonable pace. John grinned as he watched the two of them bounding over the rocks and hillocks, certain that much of that energy was simply Sherlock's normal enthusiasm for the case. _He's so childlike sometimes in spite of his arrogance._

John was the first to catch up with Sherlock and Liam in a kind of hollow overshadowed by a couple of massive stones and old trees. They were peering at a rivulet which was almost a waterfall that trickled down the steep hillside amongst mossy rocks. Sherlock was still pretending to be Captain Longshanks and was explaining that the map John claimed to have stolen earlier had actually been a fake he'd made in case any of the crew thought to double cross him, but that he'd had the real map in his own head all along. Liam giggled devilishly at the clever trick, then heard John approaching and sprung to his feet waving a stick as his cutlass and commanding John do all the work of digging up the treasure for his punishment, while gloating that he was going to have John's share as well as his own.

"Aye, aye" John submitted with a little salute to both Sherlock and Liam. He rolled up his sleeves and hefted his shovel, but before he set to work, John caught Sherlock's eye and they just sort of looked at each-other for a moment.

"Here, under the creek." Sherlock pointed at several large stones sticking out of the middle of the water which looked as though they'd sat in the same place for centuries.

"Quite clever that." John said, setting the shovel aside for now and reaching into the freezing water to grasp one of the stones. "People naturally look under stones, but not under creek-beds. Oof!" John gritted his teeth as he dislodged the first stone.

Trying to be careful not to get his new trousers as muddy as his other pair, John heaved the stone out, bending at a rather uncomfortable angle, and struggled to hold it away from his clothes until he found a spot to set it down off to the side. Liam was too anxious and quickly forgot his decree that John should do all the work himself. He began tossing smaller stones willy nilly behind him, paying no heed to the temperature of the water, nor how wet he was getting. Sherlock dove right in as well, though he too was being careful of his new clothes, and together he and John shifted the largest of the stones out of the way. As the other three men finally approached they had to dodge a couple of rocks that came flying over Liam's head. Sherlock and John stood aside for a moment, both to let the others have a look and to take a slight rest after lifting that last stone.

James started making use of his shovel now that it was just mud and pebbles to deal with and Lestrade took up the other shovel which John had been carrying. Liam still crouched right in the center of things digging with his hands in the mud, so John came and crouched beside him and handed him one of the trowels they'd also brought. Liam seemed to forget about John's supposed crimes after that and chattered away at him, making up wild tales about their previous adventures on the sea.

"…And do you remember when I was swallowed by that sea-monster but he spit me up on that island and the Captain found me a week later all covered in green slime so he thought I was just a pile of seaweed except I was breathing, and how I'd found a key the monster had also swallowed and we didn't know what it went to, but it _had_ to be treasure? I bet it goes to the chest that's buried here!"

John chuckled and said they were bound to find what it went to eventually at any rate. In truth, he wasn't sure he was quite following all of Liam's ramblings, though he didn't want to discourage him. Thankfully, Sherlock withheld all his corrections of Liam's grammar and logic, though John could _see_ him thinking them.

After a while John sat back on his heels and happened to notice that Sherlock was climbing back up to the top of the hill where a grand old tree wrapped its roots around the rocks just above the place where the stream bubbled out of the ground. Since the others had things well in hand, although they hadn't yet struck any treasure chests, John stood and stretched his legs which were quite stiff from crouching while trying not to get his knees muddy. At least it was cool down in the shady hollow, so he wasn't getting sweaty. Wondering what had caught Sherlock's attention, John followed him up the hill.

"What do you see?" John asked.

Sherlock glanced back at him with a mischeivous glint in his eye. "You." He replied, turning to study John intently.

John glanced away nervously, suddenly shy under his gaze. "But, what did you come up here for?"

He felt Sherlock's gaze slide off him at last to look out at the view.

"I wanted to be alone." He said quietly.

"Oh. Right. Shall I just …go then?"

John began to turn away, but Sherlock caught his arm saying, "Knew you'd follow me."

"Oh." John glanced up at him. "Oh." He said again as the pleasant realization dawned on him. "You want to be alone, with…with me?"

Sherlock continued looking away from him, muttering, "I always like being alone with you, John. Is that so hard to believe?"

"No, it's just, well because, I-I was wanting…" every inch of him ached to wrap Sherlock in his arms right then. He reached for Sherlock's arm but then hung back, opting to take his hand instead. Even _that_ felt a bit like a crazy risk, since hitherto Sherlock had initiated it; doing it himself felt like a very direct statement. But Sherlock shook off his hand, instead reaching round John's shoulder to pull him over behind the huge tree-trunk out of sight from everyone below, at the same time tucking John neatly against his side.

Hesitantly, as if he might break this dream, John wormed his arm between Sherlock and the tree at their backs, letting his hand rest loosely on Sherlock's hip. They stood wrapped in silent togetherness, which didn't need any words. They both knew they weren't entirely sure what they were, but they also knew that because they knew each-other so well it would be alright somehow.

"You would make an excellent father, John." Sherlock observed, much to John's surprise.

John smiled to himself thinking of Sherlock playing pirates. "You're actually not so bad with children yourself."

"That was a limited case," Sherlock dismissed it. "He doesn't have to live with me. _I_ don't have to live with him. You know as a parent I'd be hell. Any child of mine _would_ turn out a psychopath."

John laughed, "Probably." He had to concede.

Sherlock took in a deep breath, and when he let it out John thought he heard a slight waver. Sherlock glanced away to his other side. "The girl in the bookshop." He paused. "She would have been good for you."

It was John's turn to draw in a wavering breath. "Yes." He stated simply, because it was true. Then he looked up at Sherlock, what he could see of his neck and cheek though he was turned away, his messy hair ruffled by the breeze. "But I don't want the girl in the bookshop." He said quietly.

Sherlock's head jerked downwards to study his feet. John could see him struggling to gather his words. "John… If you want the kind of life you would have with her… I w… I c…" he turned further away as his voice dropped to more of a mumble. "Y-you should…"

John felt heavy lump in his stomach. "Do you …think I _should_ …h-have a family, and …eventually move out…?"

"I'd rather you didn't." Sherlock said more quickly and firmly than it seemed he'd intended because he quickly muttered, "I know I… shouldn't interfere. If it's what you want, it'd be better for you to…, I just thought…" he seemed to muster some determination then and looked up at the landscape, his expression set, as if steeling himself for the worst. "You should know you assumed right. I've never felt a need for a sexual relationship myself, John, …but it's fine if you want that."

John stared blankly before him, trying to process what he'd just heard. _O….kay? Did Sherlock mean he didn't understand it but would accept it if John got married to someone eventually? Did he mean he didn't mind that John was attracted to him but was warning him not to get his hopes up? Or was he trying to say he wouldn't mind having sex together if John wanted to?_ John couldn't work out how to ask that, so he just kept his mouth shut, and instead he slowly let his head come to rest on Sherlock's shoulder, and after a long moment in which he could almost feel Sherlock's inward battle with himself through the minute twitches of his body, Sherlock rested his head on John's in return. If Sherlock really didn't want any sex, John wasn't sure exactly what Sherlock wanted them to be to each-other, but it was clear at least that they were together in a sense that allowed freedom for affection, and John felt certain he couldn't think of sharing any kind of intimacy with anyone else at the moment. His affection for his dearest friend, and his devotion to him, though perhaps different from what he'd experienced with girlfriends, felt so right, so certain, so …_timeless_. John wondered if he might be able to give up sex permanently for the sake of remaining …whatever it was they were. He wasn't sure, but he thought he would do _anything_ for Sherlock. _Perhaps Sherlock would do _anything_ for him too?_

After several minutes of savoring their closeness John murmured, "You know, sometimes what's best isn't always what makes the most sense."

He heard a faint _hmmm_ from Sherlock, which he understood to be an unsure attempt to accept that, even though it went against his nature.

Several more minutes stretched in silence, and then Sherlock changed subjects. "You weren't lifting properly," he noted.

"My back is already paying for it," John agreed with a slight groan.

"I thought as much." Sherlock said in his usual know-it-all tone, followed by a long-suffering sigh. Then to John's utter shock, Sherlock shifted John so he was leaning on him front to front, and began dutifully massaging John's back with his warm, strong hands. The soothing pressure on John's lower back brought his stomach right against Sherlock's, reminding him once again quite vividly of laying against his bare skin this morning. It was almost too much for John to bear and he was quite certain Sherlock must be aware of the bulge that was forming in his trousers, being pressed fully against him as he was. John determined he ought to step back… but several minutes passed and all he'd managed was a grateful moan. No doubt Sherlock's past observations of him attempting to rub his own back coupled with his knowledge of anatomy accounted for Sherlock's ability to find the exact muscles that were bothering him. If not for the strength of Sherlock's hands pressing him into his chest and melting John's muscles, John surely would have been unable to resist the urge to kiss him at that moment, both for gratitude and desire.

A shrill cry of excitement from Liam broke them apart suddenly, and they hurried back down the hill as the other's beckoned to them. Apparently the legend was true.


End file.
